


The Rosebud Diamond

by vivianblakesunrisebay



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dames and fellas, Diamonds are a guy's best friend, Gangsters and society swells, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, New York in the 1940s, Not depicted but acknowledged, Period-Typical Homophobia, a few murders, dramatic wrist grabbing, everyone smokes like chimneys, fedoras and trenchcoats, masquerade balls, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27145216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianblakesunrisebay/pseuds/vivianblakesunrisebay
Summary: His new client was tall, dark, and handsome, with cheekbones that could cut glass, and legs that wouldn’t quit.*Patrick is a detective. David is his mysterious client. There’s a priceless diamond, a masquerade ball, murder, thievery, blackmail, secrets, betrayal, gangsters, smoking, whiskey, and angst galore. (And a happy ending.)It’s a film noir AU.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 107
Kudos: 173
Collections: Schitt's Creek Trick Or Treat





	1. The Client

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCTrickOrTreat](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCTrickOrTreat) collection. 



> Thanks for the prompt, anon! I had so much fun with it. Hope you like the result.
> 
> This is a fic set in the 1940’s, and has a noir theme, so there’s a few things in here that I wouldn’t write in a modern fic. Please read the tags.
> 
> While reading this, please picture if you will the Casablanca photo shoot Dan and Noah did for Entertainment Weekly. It was my inspiration while writing!
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful betas, who will be revealed later.

Patrick Brewer’s ten o’clock arrived twenty minutes late, but then business hadn’t exactly been booming lately.

His new client was tall, dark, and handsome, with cheekbones that could cut glass, and legs that wouldn’t quit. 

“You’re late,” Patrick said, because it was good to let the client know they couldn’t walk all over you.

“Am I? I didn’t notice. I’m not really a morning person.” The man brushed past him and took one of the seats in front of Patrick’s desk. 

So, it was going to be like that, then. Patrick followed and took a seat behind the desk.

“What can I do for you, sir?” Patrick said. “My secretary wrote down ‘new case, no name given’ on my calendar.”

“I preferred to talk only to you, Mr. Brewer. Your secretary is very rude, by the way.”

Patrick smiled. “She’s all right.” He wouldn’t trade Miss Budd for anything. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Coffee, please.”

“Uh, I’m afraid I don’t have coffee.”

“No coffee?” the man seemed affronted. “What kind of person offers drinks at ten AM, and doesn’t have coffee?"

“A tea drinker? I have some nice Orange pekoe, if you’d like that.”

The man waved his hand at the side table, where there was a percolator on a wooden tray. “Why do you have that then?”

“The previous tenant. Sorry to get your hopes up. I can send Miss Budd to get you some coffee.”

The man grumbled, “Forget it. She’d just screw it up. I’m very particular about it.”

Patrick found himself smiling. He put his hand on his chin to hide it. “You’re a little far from home, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

Patrick said, “Let’s just say the Bowery bums don’t seem like your usual crowd.”

“I wished to run no risk of running into someone I know,” the man said.

Patrick said, “I’d say that’s a pretty safe bet. How can I help you?”

“My name is David Rose,” the man said. 

“Ah,” Patrick said.

“You’ve heard of me, then?” Mr. Rose said.

“Well, not you specifically. I know your family from the case. Hard not to.”

Mr. Rose nodded, a resigned look on his face. “Yes, it was quite memorable.”

A year ago, the Rosebud diamond, an unusually-shaped gem that had been cut to resemble a rose, had been stolen from Moira Rose, the famous “Rosebud Girl” of the silent era. Patrick had been with the NYPD at the time.

It was also the reason—maybe—he didn’t work there anymore.

“Cigarette?” Patrick offered, opening the box on his desk.

“Thanks, but I have my own.” The man drew out a tiny cigarette, dark brown and fancy, likely hand-rolled by European monks.

Patrick struck a match and the man leaned in and accepted the light. Patrick took a cigarette for himself and lit it with the same match.

Mr. Rose leaned back and puffed on his cigarette, squinting into the smoke, seeming content to sit there in silence. Patrick noticed a ring on his index finger, very unusual, an etched silver band with a stone the color of smoke.

Patrick had learned to let the client speak first, but after a minute of this silence, he couldn’t help saying, “Are you here about the robbery?”

“No,” Mr. Rose said.

“Oh,” Patrick said. Too bad.

Mr. Rose went on, “I’m here about my sister.” He crossed his legs and tugged at his pantleg. Patrick’s eyes flicked over the length of his thigh, then dipped down to look at three inches of ankle covered in very thin, very expensive silk. 

Well. He had eyes, didn’t he?

Mr. Rose continued, “My sister, Miss Alexis Rose, has gotten herself into a bit of a scrape.” He took another drag off his tiny cigarette. 

Patrick nudged the ashtray in his direction, and Mr. Rose tapped his cigarette deftly on the edge. 

“She is being blackmailed,” Mr. Rose said.

Patrick nodded. “Go on.”

Mr. Rose unfolded the story. First there was a letter, mentioning the possession of damaging information, but it was so vague that Miss Rose had ignored it. Then another letter, and this time a photograph was included, a photograph of the lady with a rather dubious acquaintance, in a state of dishabille that suggested a very intimate relationship. 

“Normally, my sister would not be concerned about this kind of thing, but she is hoping to soon become engaged to Stavros Valli, the heir to the Valli shipping empire. The Valli _père_ is an old-fashioned gentleman who might not take kindly to some of the more, shall we say, adventurous aspects of Alexis’s past.”

“I get the picture,” Patrick said. “So has she paid them anything yet?”

“Yes,” Mr. Rose said, sounding irritated. “She didn’t come to me right away. The demand seemed rather modest to her—a diamond tennis bracelet, a gift from our father, that she wasn’t particularly attached to. The blackmailer told her to drop it off in a locker at Penn Station. He sent a key. So she did it.”

“So this is someone who knows your sister rather well, if they know her jewelry.”

“Yes, that was my thought.”

“So was there another demand?”

“Yes. This time they asked for a particular gold starburst tiara she is very attached to, and she didn’t want to give it up. So she came to me.

“This time she was supposed to leave the tiara at Grand Central Station, in another locker. We decided she would drop it off and I would wait, in disguise, near the locker to see when it was picked up.”

Patrick tried to imagine this man in a disguise. He was so striking, Patrick didn’t think there was any way he could be unobtrusive. He said, “What was your disguise?”

Mr. Rose looked quizzical. “Does it matter?”

“I’m curious.” Patrick took a final drag off his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

Mr. Rose paused, and then said grudgingly, “I put on one of my mother’s wigs, a dress, and a heavy veil.”

Patrick nodded, trying to keep his expression neutral, as his brain whited out for a moment at the thought of this man striding through Grand Central Station with his skirts whipping around his legs and a veil trailing out behind him. 

“Anyway, it worked,” Mr. Rose said. “I saw someone come to pick up the package.”

Patrick was surprised. “And?”

“I recognized him. It was my father’s business manager, Eli Goldman.”

Mr. Rose put out his little brown cigarette and took out another one. Patrick obligingly opened his matchbook to give him another light. 

Mr. Rose accepted the light, then went on. “He’s been with us for years. My father trusts him absolutely. And my sister doesn’t want to tell my father about this, for obvious reasons.”

Patrick said, “So what are you asking me to do here?”

“I need you to help me get rid of him.”

Patrick held up his hands. “Look, I don’t know what you think I do, but—”

“Of course I know that, even though obviously it would be the best solution all around for Mr. Goldman to disappear. However, I know that’s not—obviously, I know that.”

“All right, then. So long as we understand each other.”

“But I am very serious about this, Mr. Brewer. Mr. Goldman cannot continue as our family business manager. I need you to investigate him, give me something I can bring to my father besides this business with my sister. And I need you to get him to leave my sister alone. And, ideally, I’d like you to get back my sister’s starburst tiara.”

“What about the tennis bracelet?”

Mr. Rose waved a hand. “She doesn’t care about that.”

“You don’t ask much, Mr. Rose.”

“I am prepared to pay.” Mr. Rose took out his wallet. “What is your fee?” 

“Twenty dollars a day, plus expenses.”

Mr. Rose took out an envelope. “Here is five hundred dollars.” 

Patrick didn’t reach out for it. “That seems a little much,” he said.

“Consider it on account.” Mr. Rose put the envelope on the desk. 

He stood up.

Patrick said, “I’d like to talk to your sister.”

“I’m afraid you can’t do that, Mr. Brewer. She doesn’t know I am consulting you. I haven’t told her that I saw Mr. Goldman. She can be … unpredictable."

Patrick frowned. “You’re not making this easy.”

“You understand I want you to find something _else_ on Mr. Goldman. Keep my sister entirely out of it. If he’s willing to do this, he must be crooked in other ways.”

Patrick decided not to press it, for now. He stood up, opened the top drawer of his desk and drew out his card. He handed it to Mr. Rose. “Here’s my card,” he said. “Contact me if Mr. Goldman contacts your sister again. Or, for, well—for anything.” 

Why had he added that? Usually he did everything he could to keep his clients at arms’ length.

Mr. Rose took the card. He tapped it against his palm. “Thank you, Mr. Brewer. But as long as you do your job, I shouldn’t need this.” He swept out, leaving behind a cloud of expensive cologne.

Patrick tapped on his intercom button. “Miss Budd, can you come in here?”

She came in, and sat in the chair Mr. Rose had vacated. “So who was the dish?” she said.

Patrick said, “Please don’t call our client a _dish.”_

“He is though. Ooh, so glad he’s hiring us. He looks like Park Avenue.”

“That,” Patrick said, “was David Rose.”

Her eyes widened. “I knew I knew him from somewhere! So is he hiring you to find the Rosebud diamond?”

Patrick shook his head. “No, it was something else. But what do you remember about that case?”

“Only what I read in the newspaper.”

“Fire away. I want to refresh my memory.”

“Let’s see. Back in the early silent movie days Carl Currie, gangster to end all gangsters, had a torrid affair with the Rosebud Girl of Rose Pictures. The guy spent a ton of money on an enormous diamond, cut in the shape of a rosebud, as a tribute to her nickname.”

Patrick nodded.

“The Rosebud Girl eventually dumped Carl and married her producer, the mogul of Rose Pictures, Johnny Rose. But she treasured this diamond as a tribute to her star power. Especially after it, shall we say, faded.” Miss Budd popped a piece of gum in her mouth.

“Last year, Mrs. Rose took a break from plotting her inevitable comeback to show off the diamond at the annual Rose Halloween masquerade ball. She wore a red dress with miles of ruffles, and had a dilly of a headpiece made up of eleven red roses, with this diamond rose at the very top as the twelfth. She posed for a spread in Variety, so all the little shopgirls could buy a copy and sigh over her outfit and dream of the day they might be blessed with a gangster boyfriend who showered them with jewels.”

Patrick said, “Did you buy a copy?”

“Not me, I’m a hard-boiled secretary who doesn’t care about any of that jazz.”

Patrick laughed.

She went on, “So then, when the grand night rolled around, Mrs. Rose wore her fancy outfit and her fancy headdress. Then, around midnight, all the lights went out, all the swells screamed their heads off, and when they came back on again the diamond was gone.”

Patrick nodded. “And someone spotted a getaway car.”

“Yes. A witness saw three men and a woman speeding away from the house that night. The woman had on a Harlequin costume.”

“The press had a field day,” Patrick remembered.

The story—involving as it did high society, a silent film actress, an unusual diamond, a high-profile gangster, and a mysterious lady thief (dubbed, of course, the Harlequin Thief)—had caught the fancy of the newspapers; there were breathless updates on the robbery and the course of the investigation.

“But they never found out who was in the car, or really had any leads at all,” Patrick said. He remembered, bitterly, his own theory about that.

Miss Budd shook her head. “Nope. There was loads of speculation because it turned out Carl Currie was actually at the party that night. But it didn’t go anywhere, and eventually the press moved on, and the NYPD tossed it on their pile of unsolved cases.”

“But then,” Patrick said.

Miss Budd smiled. “But then, six months ago, Carl Currie was found swinging from a ceiling fan with a rope around his neck. When he was cut down, he managed to whisper the word ‘Rosebud’”—Miss Budd put her hands around her throat and choked out the word—“before he died.”

“That renewed all the speculation that he’d stolen it, and that now someone had stolen it from him,” Patrick remembered.

“But none of this is what Mr. Rose asked you to look into?”

Patrick shook his head. “Someone is blackmailing his sister.”

Stevie nodded. “Why don’t you go talk to Mr. Butani? He’s always got the inside scoop on these society types.”

He nodded. “Yes, that will be my first stop.”

“Park Avenue calling on the likes of us. Moving on up, Mr. Brewer.” Miss Budd smirked and retreated to her desk out front.

Patrick tapped his fingers restlessly on the desk. He was jumpy and he had a funny feeling in his gut. He went over the sidebar where he kept his electric kettle. He turned it on, then measured out two scoops of Orange pekoe into his teapot. He smoked a cigarette as he waited for the water to boil.

When the tea was ready, he poured it out. The ritual was soothing, as it always was. He got this stuff from a place in Chinatown, and even on his worst days a cup of tea was a tiny oasis of calm.

As he bent his head over the fragrant liquid, he recognized the feeling in his gut: excitement. Something he hadn’t felt for a long while. After a steady diet of dreary divorce cases, this promised to be a break from the routine. 

The fact that his client was a dish like David Rose didn’t hurt either.

*

Ray Butani wrote a gossip column that appeared in the _New York Examiner,_ which had the third best circulation in the city, mostly due to his contribution. Only about ten percent of what Mr. Butani actually knew wound up in his column, and despite what one might think, given his profession, he was as discreet as a nun.

Patrick had rented a room from him in his Brooklyn house when he first moved to New York, until he got tired of schlepping back and forth on the C train. Ray was probably his closest friend. His only friend, maybe.

“Let me get you a drink, Patrick!” Ray said when he let him in. “What would you like? I miss the days when you were living over my garage.”

“Scotch,” Patrick said, sitting down in the chair Ray indicated.

Ray handed him his drink and sat down across from him. He tilted his head. “You look different, Patrick.”

“My hair’s longer,” Patrick said. He’d kept his short G.I. haircut even after the war ended, thinking it made him look older. But recently he’d let it grow a bit.

“Mm, perhaps that is it.” Ray was looking at him keenly. “Well, at any rate, you are looking very well today. Such rosy cheeks!” 

Patrick sipped his drink. It was good scotch. Ray didn’t skimp. “Rosy cheeks, huh?” he said

“Yes, Patrick, and it is a welcome sight. You look more like the fresh-faced farm boy you were when we first met, instead of the withered old cynic you have become.”

Patrick huffed out a laugh. “Cynicism is inevitable, in my business.”

“You always have a choice. Look at me,” Ray said, patting himself on the chest. “My business could make me cynic too, but instead I believe in love and happiness. Now, what can I do for you?”

“What can you tell me about the Rose family?” Patrick said.

"The Roses of Rose Pictures, you mean?" Patrick nodded. Ray went on, “Let me see. Johnny Rose’s fortune comes from his days running his film studio here in New York. When the talkies came, he dismissed them as a fad. He also liked New York too much to make the move to Hollywood with the others. He hung on for awhile and then folded up shop. He still has plenty of money, but no business. Now he is happy living quietly at home raising his orchids.”

“Not roses?”

Ray smiled and shrugged.

“He still has a business manager, though,” Patrick said.

“Of course, all rich men do.”

Patrick said, “The manager is named Eli Goldman. Do you know anything about him?”

Ray pursed his lips, then shook his head. “Would you like me to ask around?”

“Yes, please. Now, what about the others?”

“You know Moira Rose, of course. When sound came, she was one of the many who didn’t make the transition. Her voice wasn’t considered suitable. But word is she has not given up hope on a comeback! And Miss Alexis Rose is very beautiful, very popular, always in the society pages.” Ray went to a file cabinet and pulled out a folder. He brought out some clippings and handed them to Patrick.

Patrick rifled through them. He saw a tall blonde in a variety of fancy gowns, hanging on the arms of different men in tuxedos. One showed her with Stavros Valli, the man Mr. Rose said she was on the verge of getting engaged to. Patrick studied the picture. Valli was tall, with broad shoulders and thick dark hair that curled at the tips. He had a strong jaw and full lips and a smoldering stare for the camera. Well, lucky her.

Patrick handed back the clippings. “What about the son?” he said. He sipped his drink, casual.

Ray shrugged. “The same, really. He runs with the same crowd as Miss Alexis. A very busy man, socially speaking. I seem to remember something—” He pulled out another file and took out a stack of clippings. He flipped through them. “See for yourself.”

He handed the stack to Patrick. Patrick paged through the pictures slowly. He saw Mr. Rose in tuxes and expensive tailored suits like the one he had worn that morning. He had a different woman on his arm in each one.

Patrick got to the last clipping. This one was different. The picture was more of a close-up, so Mr. Rose’s face was more distinct. He was standing with another man who was only visible in a quarter profile. Mr. Rose was wearing a trench coat and a fedora tilted at a rakish angle. His face was thinner, more angular, maybe a little drawn. He looked gorgeous, but sad.

The caption read: _Mr. David Rose and mystery man stepping out at Cafe Society._

“He is very striking, is he not?” Ray said. “All the Roses are so good looking! Such a handsome family."

Patrick kept his eyes down. “It’s a nice picture.”

“Nice little society item for the matrons—and for some of the more worldly ones to get a whiff of something more titillating. I like to throw in a bit of spice.” 

Patrick’s eyes were caught on Mr. Rose’s face. He _was_ very striking, Ray was right about that. In this black and white photo, his black eyebrows and eyelashes stood out strongly. He wondered if Ray’s implication was true—that Mr. Rose was interested in men the way other men were interested in women.

Like Patrick was. 

“Who’s the other man? Do you know?”

Ray looked significant. “Not at first. But now—” 

Patrick looked closely at what you could see of the other man’s face. It wasn’t much, because his head was turned from the camera, and his hat was pulled down low. But Patrick thought there was something familiar about him—

Then he knew. He said, “Is that—”

“Yes, I think so. Seb Raine.”

Seb Raine was an up and coming player in the world of organized crime; young, brutal, and in a hurry. He had come up in Carl Currie’s organization and had been a favorite with him. After Currie’s death, which threw the underworld into chaos, Raine had moved quickly. He’d spent the last six months consolidating power and eliminating enemies, and it probably wouldn’t be long before he controlled the whole Currie organization.

So. David Rose was friends with Raine. Maybe more than friends.

Patrick said, “Can you tell me anything about how this picture came to be taken?”

“No. My photographer snapped a photo of a handsome man and his friend, that is all he knew about it. So that’s all I know too.”

“All you want to know.”

“Of course. I do not go looking for trouble.”

Patrick looked back at the photo. “I don’t either,” he muttered. “But somehow, it always finds me.”

*

On the train back to the city, Patrick told himself that he had been hired to do a job. That job was to find some dirt on Eli Goldman, who was blackmailing Miss Rose—not to launch a crusade against organized crime, or tell all the gangsters to stay away from beautiful society men.

It was a lucrative job, too—he thought of the five hundred dollars. That was what mattered here. Money in the bank. 

Since Mr. Rose didn’t want Patrick talking to anyone in the Rose family, Patrick decided to do a little light shadowing, to see what he could find out about Mr. Goldman. He hopped on a train to Midtown. Mr. Rose had given him Goldman’s address, the Belmont Towers.

There was a restaurant on the ground floor, and Patrick got himself a table with a view of the entrance to the apartment building. He read the newspaper while he waited.

Finally, a man came in who matched the general description Mr. Rose had given him. He was older than Patrick expected, completely ordinary in appearance.

Patrick got up and followed, at a distance. The man went into the elevator and the operator greeted him as Mr. Goldman.

So this was him.

Patrick decided to hang out awhile in case Goldman came out again. A couple of hours went by, and tried to read the sports page, but now that the World Series was over and the Dodgers had lost, there wasn’t much to hold his attention.

Then Goldman came downstairs, dressed in the same coat. He walked out the door and hailed a cab. Patrick got close enough to hear what he said to the driver. It was an address in Chelsea.

Then Patrick hailed a cab of his own and paid the driver a little extra of David Rose’s money to tell him to step on it. The cab pulled up in front of an apartment building. Patrick got out and smoked a cigarette by the entrance, his hat pulled down low. Goldman’s cab pulled up a few minutes later and he entered the building. He used one of the call buttons in the entryway to ring up to an apartment. He was buzzed in.

Patrick made note of which button he’d pushed, and slipped in to see what name was on it, not expecting much. He was very surprised to see a name he knew. A name he knew very well.

What the hell was Eli Goldman doing calling on Bob Currie?

*

Patrick had personal reasons to remember the name Bob Currie.

Bob was Carl Currie’s younger brother. Last November, Patrick had been with the NYPD, 19th precinct, and he’d been charged with sorting through the anonymous tips that came through the tip line. It was grunt work. It was right after the Rosebud diamond had been stolen, so the line was flooded with calls.

He got Bob’s name from an anonymous caller for a hit and run case. A car had smashed into a jewelry store front window on 5th Avenue, breaking open several display cases and seriously injuring a man named Mullens who was out walking his dog. The jewelry store was looted and the guy was left for dead. 

Patrick had looked into it, to see if the tip was worth passing on, and noted that the hit and run was on Halloween, the same night as the theft of the Rosebud diamond. He thought the name Currie implied a connection worth following up on. He passed it on to the detective on the case. The detective called on Bob Currie, and he confessed right away. Open and shut.

Patrick thought something was fishy. The mobster’s brother rolling over, just like that? He smelled a cover up. This might be a chance link him and maybe Carl to the theft of the Rosebud diamond. He took his theory to the detective on the case, and when he told him to get lost, he went over his head to his boss and then to the top brass. A chance to nail Carl Currie? He figured they would jump at it. 

What a fool he’d been.

They did not, in fact, jump at it. Instead, he was fired. The case was closed. Bob Currie went to jail.

But now Bob was out, less than a year later. Very unusual for a hit-and-run case, even if he’d pleaded out. And Eli Goldman was calling on him. 

Patrick went to a pay phone and called Miss Budd and asked her to look in the newspapers for any mention of Bob Currie getting out of prison. He hung up, then dropped in another nickel to call his old precinct. He asked for the records office.

“Records,” said a voice. His heart sank as he recognized Miss Lee. She had never liked him.

“Hi, Miss Lee, it’s Patrick Brewer.”

“Oh, it’s our one man crusader,” Miss Lee’s voice came dryly over the line. He winced. Of course, everyone in the precinct would know why he was fired.

“I’m wondering if you can tell me if Bob Currie was released from prison.”

“And why should I tell you that? I seem to remember you don’t work for the 19th anymore.”

“I just thought—”

“I’m not your secretary.”

“I know, Miss Lee.”

“And I’d get fired if I helped you, wouldn’t I? Not everyone can afford to stand on principle, you know.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“Hmph.” She hung up.

Patrick hung up the receiver and sighed. He wasn’t getting very far. He decided to grab some dinner and head home.

*

They were waiting for him. He had just gotten his apartment door open when the three men jumped him.

Patrick put up a fight, but it was three against one, and his attempts to fight back only made them more determined. Finally two of them got hold of him by the arms while the other one punched him with ruthless efficiency.

The man punching him said, “We’re here to give you a message, see?” He punctuated this statement with a punch in the gut.

“A telegram—would have been fine,” Patrick said when he caught his breath, because apparently he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“All right, wise guy.” Another punch. “Mr. Raine isn’t happy. We’re here to tell you to knock off asking about Bob Currie.” Another punch in the gut.

Patrick coughed. “Why?” he said, when he caught his breath. 

“Shut up,” the man said, and punched him again.

Patrick shut up. More punches, more blows, until he was swallowed up in merciful blackness.

*

A voice. “Mr. Brewer!”

Hands on his shoulders, stroking him, trying to lift him up. “Mr. Brewer, what happened? Are you all right?”

That voice. That cologne. Those hands.

Patrick came fully awake. He was on the floor, wedged in the partially open door of his apartment.

He stirred, and the hands slipped away. He opened his eyes, and there was Mr. Rose.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Patrick struggled to his feet. He took stock. “I don’t think any bones are broken,” he said.

“You could have been killed,” Mr. Rose said. “What happened?”

Patrick felt very unsteady. He turned to go into the apartment. Mr. Rose followed and closed the door.

“You should sit down,” Mr. Rose said.

Patrick shook his head. He stayed standing. “Do you know the name Bob Currie?”

Mr. Rose frowned. “No. Is he connected to Carl? The gangster?”

“His brother.”

Mr. Rose shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

Patrick thought of the picture of Mr. Rose with Seb Raine. 

“Mr. Brewer?” Mr. Rose said. 

“What?” Patrick said.

“Why are you asking me about Bob Currie?”

“I’m asking—” Patrick felt himself swaying. Mr. Rose caught him by the shoulders.

“Okay, never mind that now,” Mr. Rose said. He eased Patrick down onto the couch, his touch gentle but sure. “Where does it hurt? What can I do?” 

“I’m fine,” Patrick said.

“Oh, sure, you look fine,” Mr. Rose said ironically. He sat down next to him and helped him take his coat off. “Look, you’re bleeding!”

“Yeah, they got in a few good punches,” Patrick grunted. He needed to get himself together, figure out what was going on. What was Mr. Rose doing here? Had he known Raine was sending thugs to beat him up? But he felt thick and slow, his brain cloudy.

Mr. Rose said, “You need to wash out these cuts. You don’t want to get infected. Do you have any antiseptic?”

“In the bathroom cabinet,” Patrick said.

Mr. Rose went into the bathroom and came back with a damp washcloth and the bottle of antiseptic. He sat down next to him again and started unbuttoning Patrick’s shirt. He pushed it down and eased it off Patrick’s shoulders, gently pulling at it where it was stuck to him. 

Mr. Rose made a soft sympathetic noise when he saw the cuts and scrapes and bruises on Patrick’s chest.

He got the shirt all the way off and gently folded it and placed it on a chair, like it was something precious, instead of a ruined, bloody shirt. Then David’s hands were back on Patrick, gently wiping at his chest with the washcloth and applying the antiseptic. Patrick closed his eyes. It was nice, having someone take care of him. Having this man take care of him.

“Done,” Mr. Rose said, his voice soft.

Patrick opened his eyes. Mr. Rose was so close, his hands lingering on Patrick’s bare shoulders. Their eyes met and held.

Mr. Rose started to draw back, and Patrick grabbed him suddenly by the wrist, and pulled him in. Mr. Rose gasped as his body fell against Patrick’s. He turned his hand in Patrick’s grip, but Patrick held fast.

“How frightfully manly,” Mr. Rose said.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on here, Mr. Rose?” Patrick said.

“What do you mean?”

“How did you happen to come here, just now?”

Mr. Rose said, “You’re lucky I did, don’t you think?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You said to contact you anytime, I believe. Was that not a sincere offer?”

Patrick shook his wrist a little. He growled, “Okay. Try this. When were you going to tell me that you're cozy with Seb Raine?”

Silence.

“Well?”

Mr. Rose’s voice grew cold. “I don’t see what possible bearing that has on the case. Or what business it is of yours.”

“So you don’t know anything about these thugs tonight.”

“No, should I?”

“They said they came from Raine.”

Mr. Rose looked shocked. It seemed genuine. “You think—you think I got him to beat you up? Why would I do that?”

“Do you deny that you’re friends with him?”

“That has no bearing on this case.”

“So you don’t deny it?”

“Deny what, Mr. Brewer?"

“That fact that you and he were—” Patrick squeezed his wrist tighter. 

Mr. Rose’s lips twisted in a little ironic smile. “Oh dear,” he said. “Are you one of those tiresome people who thinks it’s a sin? Or perhaps you think it’s catching?”

“No, I don’t think it’s _catching.”_ Patrick said irritably. “This isn’t about that.”

Mr. Rose’s eyes were on Patrick’s hand, wrapped around his wrist, held against Patrick’s bare chest. His gaze flicked up. He still had that little smile. “I think, in light of the circumstances, you can call me David.”

Patrick gave his wrist another shake. “All right, _David._ Seb Raine is a gangster with a finger in every pie in this town, so if you’re connected with him I’m liable to step in a hornet’s nest. I think I already have.”

David’s eyes fell. He seemed to be thinking. Then he said, “Okay. I do—I did know Sebastien.”

Patrick let go of David’s wrist, and David fell forward, against Patrick’s chest. He pushed against him as he sat up, his hand flat against his bare skin. Then David straightened his sleeves and settled back against the couch. He looked completely in command of himself.

Patrick struggled to his feet and made his way to his closet. He pulled out another shirt and shrugged into it. He began fastening the buttons.

Patrick noticed David’s eyes on the movement of Patrick’s hands, buttoning up his shirt. He might have slowed his movements down a little. “So what about it, David?” he said.

“Can I have a drink?” David said.

Patrick nodded at the liquor cabinet. “In there. Whiskey. Pour me one, too.”

David went to the cabinet and took out the bottle. He poured two generous drinks and brought them to the coffee table.

Patrick finished buttoning up his shirt. He started trying to tuck it in but winced and gave up.

David said, “Will you come over here and sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

Patrick just folded his arms and waited. David sighed and picked up one of the drinks. He took a sip.

“All right,” he said. “Last year, Sebastien and I were together, for a little while. A few months. My sister and I spent a lot of time with him and his crowd. But it’s been over now, for some time. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Patrick said skeptically. “What do you know about his business activities?”

“Nothing,” David said, spreading out his hands. “I didn’t work for him. And we didn’t talk much when we were together.” He smirked a little.

“Okay,” Patrick said sharply, a dart of … something swooping through his stomach. “I get it.”

David said, “I knew that he was involved in a lot of things. But I really didn’t ask. And he didn’t tell me much of anything.” An echo of bitterness crept into David’s voice.

“Hm.”

“Mr. Brewer, you were asking me about—about Bob Currie earlier. Why?”

Patrick decided there was no reason not to answer. “Eli Goldman went to see him today.”

David’s eyes widened in shock. “He did?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Do you think Currie is a blackmailer too?”

“Maybe,” Patrick said. “I have a question. Why not go to Raine about this problem of yours? He could squash a little blackmailer like a bug.”

“I did not call him, Mr. Brewer, for two reasons. One, this situation calls for a delicate touch, which Sebastien is incapable of. And two, Sebastien is no longer someone with whom I wish to associate.” His voice shook. “Now perhaps you will let me keep some secrets.”

Patrick walked over to join David on the couch. He picked up his cigarettes from the table, drew one out of the pack, put it into his mouth. His movements were clumsy. He started feeling around his pockets for matches, but then a lighter flared in front of his face.

“Thank you,” he said, leaning into the flame.

“You’re welcome.”

Silence.

“You don’t get far in my business by trusting people,” Patrick said.

“Not even your clients?”

“Especially my clients. Everyone has something to hide, David. That’s usually why they’re coming to me.”

“I suppose so.” 

Patrick liked sitting here with David. Maybe too much.

“Mr. Brewer,” David said softly. “Do you ever wonder how you ended up living the life you’re living?”

 _Call me Patrick,_ Patrick thought. But didn’t say it. “I try not to think about it,” he said.

David went on, musingly, “All those little choices, one after another, each leading you further and further, dragging you along, to somewhere you’d never thought you’d be.”

Patrick gave David a sidelong glance. “And where is that?”

David raised an eyebrow. “Sitting with a very hard-boiled detective, drinking cheap whiskey in the middle of the night.”

“Cheap? This is my good bottle.”

David’s lip quirked up. “My mistake.” 

Patrick took a sip of his whiskey. David twisted the ring on his finger, the silvery one with its cloudy stone, that Patrick had noticed when they first met.

“Where’d you get that ring?” Patrick asked.

David looked down at it. “Oh—well, actually, I made it.”

“Really? It’s nice.”

“Yeah. I’ve made a few things. I learned how to do some basic things with metal and I—I like gems.”

Patrick smiled and said, “Like the Rosebud Diamond?”

David gave a delicate shudder. He said, “Actually, no. Diamonds are so flashy and obvious. They have no subtlety. I like—I like unusual gems, the ones that don’t sparkle, or scream out to be noticed. Like this one. It’s a moonstone. See?” 

He held out his hand. Patrick took it. He looked at the shimmery grey stone. “It’s interesting,” he said. “It’s cloudy, but it has depth. And I like what you did with the metal part of the ring. It’s got an interesting texture. Is it silver?”

“Yes,” David said. “I used a little hammer to create the texture.”

“Well, I like it,” Patrick said. 

“Thanks,” David said. His voice was small.

David’s hand felt nice in his. “I’d love to see the other things you’ve made,” Patrick said. 

He looked up. David was looking at him.

David slid his hand away and stood up. “I should go.” 

Patrick struggled to his feet and followed him to the door.

At the door, David paused. He turned around, and suddenly his soft lips were pressing against Patrick’s, his hands were on his shoulders, caressing him. Patrick froze. Then his hands circled David’s back, and he was pulling him close, he was kissing him back, he was touching David, he was being touched, he was feeling the heat and fire of this man in his arms.

Then the touch, the heat, the fire was gone, replaced by the whisper of a voice in his ear:

“What about you, Mr. Brewer? What do you have to hide?”

Then he was gone.

*

Sleep didn’t come easily that night. Being beaten to a pulp once in a while was an occupational hazard, but that didn’t mean Patrick ever got used to it. Nights were the worst.

When he finally slept, a figure crept into his dreams. Alluring, tantalizing, pressing against the length of his body, touching him, lips pressing against him, hot breath on his skin, hot mouth where he wanted it most.

Patrick woke with a gasp. He was sweaty, twisted up in the bedclothes, his cock throbbing between his legs. The cuts on his body stung. His limbs were stiff with bruises forming everywhere.

Yes. Nights were the worst.

He ached.


	2. The Murder

Waking up the next morning wasn’t pleasant. It never was. Patrick swallowed some aspirin and winced and groaned aloud as he got himself into a hot shower. He was alone; he didn’t have to be a tough guy.

In the shower, his mind drifted back to the night before. David’s lips against his. And to the David of his dream, who had done more than kiss him. He reached down and took himself in hand, and then let the water carry away the results. 

He hadn’t always known, who he was. 

Patrick had grown up assuming he’d get married, like everyone did. When he was sixteen he had a girl, like all of his friends did, and he gave her his pin, and they kept breaking up, but then they kept getting back together too. When the war started, he’d enlisted, and in a last minute panic of homesickness, he’d asked his girl to marry him before he left.

She did.

He put a ring on her finger and had a wedding night that didn’t seem worth all the fuss he’d heard about it. Then he left. He was in Europe, mostly France, for four years.

Four years is a long time. Long enough for a lot of things to happen. Long enough for him to meet people he never would have met, and discover things about himself he might never have known. An encounter in a French nightclub with a little too much alcohol. Then another, the next night, with not as much alcohol. The truth sinking in.

Knowing the way he felt about his captain was more than he’d ever felt for his own wife.

Once he saw, he saw. He couldn’t stop knowing what he knew. And there was nothing like thinking you were going to die any day that made you grab at whatever happiness you could.

But, he didn’t die. He was one of the lucky ones. The war ended. Patrick went home. He joined the local police force. He was married. He had to accept that. He still liked Rachel, he always had, and he didn’t want to be alone. It was enough. He would make it enough.

But he didn’t want kids. He was immovable, unswayed by her arguments or her tears, by all their friends having baby after baby. When he found out she had stopped using her birth control, he stopped sharing their marital bed. 

It was a relief, anyway. He moved into the spare bedroom. But he always meant to stay. He wouldn’t leave her.

But here’s what he didn’t know: she would. And eventually, she did.

She married someone else. For their small town, it was a scandal. After that, there was no place for him there. Maybe there never had been. So he’d moved here, to the best city to get lost in. He got a job with the NYPD. Start over. Start fresh where no one knew him. 

His fresh start had gone to shit. But that had nothing to do with … this thing about him. It was unrelated.

The water had turned cold. He turned it off and reached for his towel. 

*

The shower helped. He got dressed and downed a couple of aspirins.

He had his hand on the doorknob to leave when he thought maybe he should get his gun. He didn’t carry it as a rule. Most of his cases were not particularly dangerous. But this one was looking like it might be.

He’d carried a .38 when he was on the force, but now he had a .22 that worked just fine. He liked that it was small and fit in his pocket. He went to his bedside table. He opened the drawer.

It was empty.

*

When he finally got to work, Miss Budd looked up from her desk. 

“Someone in your office,” she said.

“Who?” Patrick said, with a flicker of irritation. Usually Miss Budd was a better gatekeeper than that.

“You’ll see.”

Patrick frowned at her, but she merely smiled in return. He opened his interior office door, and saw Miss Lee sitting in front of his desk.

“Oh,” he said.

She got up. She looked irritated. “Are these the kind of office hours you keep?”

“Can I help you, Miss Lee?”

“It’s more whether I can help you.”

Then Patrick saw the thick file on his desk. A flare of excitement ignited in his belly. He hung up his hat and coat and came around to sit down. He pulled the file toward him and looked at the name. _Currie, Robert._

He looked up. “I can’t thank you enough—”

“Skip it,” she said. “And I’m not letting this out of my sight.”

“But it will take me hours to look through this,” he objected.

“It’s my day off,” Miss Lee said, looking at him steadily. “I brought a book.” She held it up: _The Little Sister._

Patrick said, “Is it good? I liked _The Big Sleep._ Even if being a private detective is really nothing like he writes it.”

“Does being a private detective mean you spend your time talking instead of working?” Miss Lee said.

Patrick held up his hands in surrender. He turned to the file. 

He put his hand on the cover. He felt the ache of his fresh bruises. _Stop asking about Bob Currie._

Damn it all to hell.

He opened up the file and began to read. 

*

His theory, the one that NYPD had decided they didn’t want to pursue, was that Carl Currie had his brother Bob confess to the hit and run to encourage closing the case early. One question he’d had, though, was why would Carl Currie choose his brother as the fall guy instead of some nobody? 

The file answered that question. A picture emerged in the police reports and testimonies, of a screwup, a bungler, someone given chance after chance, who somehow kept blundering through major heists and high stakes jobs, to shakedowns and petty thefts, to collecting kickbacks and running errands. Somehow, some way, Bob Currie managed to do nothing right. 

He read Currie’s confession to the hit and run, which told Patrick nothing he didn’t already know. The one point Currie emphasized, more than once, is that he was alone in the car.

Patrick saw the record for the new hearing, and the result, that his sentence had been vacated and Currie released. No explanation.

He glanced up at Miss Lee, who sat placidly reading her book. She had taken a risk to bring this to him, and so far it had just broadly confirmed what he thought. There was no smoking gun. 

Lastly, in the back, was a list of Currie’s visitors in prison. His eyes dropped to the bottom of the list and saw Seb Raine. Twice. 

Bingo.

Then he went back to the top of the list to scan through it, not expecting much. Then he saw a name that made his heart jump in his chest:

Alexis Rose. 

“Find something interesting?” Miss Lee was looking at him.

“I think so,” Patrick said slowly.

*

After Miss Lee took the folder away, scowlingly brushing away his thanks, Patrick lit a cigarette. He had to think. Clearly there was more to this story than what David had said.

Patrick shouldn’t be surprised. He wasn’t surprised. Clients always lied. That’s what they did. 

So why did he feel like this? All churned up. Disappointed. More than that, maybe.

He reached into his bottom desk drawer, where he kept a bottle of cheap whiskey. He poured out a generous shot.

He remembered David’s bland expression when he’d acted like he hadn’t heard the name Bob Currie. Probably everything he’d said last night was a lie.

Patrick knocked back the shot. He picked up the phone. He’d demand an explanation, make David tell the truth—tell what he was holding back—

Stop. 

He hung up the receiver.

He should wait. Wait until he could talk sense. He took a deep breath. He’d gather a little more information first, see what he could find out. The thought was calming.

Patrick pressed the intercom. “Miss Budd? Get me the number for Theodore Mullens.”

*

Theodore Mullens, the hit and run victim, was much younger and more good-looking than Patrick had expected. Dr. Mullens—he was a veterinarian—had spent two months in the hospital a year ago, but he looked like he’d fully recovered. He was slim and fit, his sleek muscles hugged in a plain, well-tailored suit. His green eyes were framed by long eyelashes, and he had a shock of sandy hair that fell over his forehead. He wasn’t hard to look at.

Patrick introduced himself as a detective, doing some follow up about the accident. He made it sound routine, and Dr. Mullens just nodded.

Patrick counted at least three dogs and two cats milling around. He listened politely while the doctor chatted away about their health histories. Buster had worms—Milly had mange—Lucy ate everything in sight. “Don’t you, Lucy?” Dr. Mullens said, scratching her ears.

As if on cue, Lucy started hacking and coughing. “Oops, outside with you!” Dr. Mullens said, and brought her outside to a tiny backyard. Patrick followed, and Dr. Mullens enthusiastically pointed out his roses and his tomato bed and the trellis for his pea plants, while Lucy hacked up what looked like a wad of tinfoil. Then she went back to barking her head off and ignoring Dr. Mullens’s repeated scoldings to hush. 

Patrick was finally able to bring the conversation back around to the accident. 

He asked if Dr. Mullens had any unusual visitors in the hospital. Dr. Mullens’s face immediately brightened. Miss Alexis Rose had come to see him (“Gosh, she was just about the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, Mr. Brewer.”) She had asked if he remembered anything about that night.

“Did you?”

“No, I banged my head up pretty good. Head trauma often leads to memory loss,” Dr. Mullens said cheerfully.

“Did she say why she took an interest in your case?” 

“She said she saw my story in the newspaper and it touched her heart. Isn’t that the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard, Mr. Brewer? A girl like that, all the money in the world, taking an interest in me?”

Lucy barked sharply. Dr. Mullens leaned over and scratched her ears. “Poor Lucy was there that night too. I’m just grateful the car hit me and not her.”

Patrick wasn’t sure if he, personally, would feel gratitude at being struck by a car and ending up in traction. But he appreciated Dr. Mullens’s positive take on the situation.

Patrick said, “If you happen to remember anything from that night, anything at all, please give me a call.” He handed over his card.

Dr. Mullens squinted at it. “You know they caught the guy, right, and he confessed? You might say he sang like a canary!” Dr. Mullens pointed behind Patrick. Patrick turned and saw the little yellow bird in a cage.

“Yeah,” he said. “Well, it never hurts to tie up loose ends. Thank you, doctor.”

 _“Knot_ a problem!” Dr. Mullens said, making a knot-tying motion to make his pun clear. Patrick dredged up a wan smile. Then the doctor ushered him out to the sound of Lucy’s barking.

*

After he left Dr. Mullens’s house, Patrick gradually realized he was being followed. 

He walked to the subway and noticed the guy on the way, a half a block back. And then he saw him again, at the other end of the subway car. He didn’t think too much of it, though, until he saw him again on the walk back to his office.

Patrick probably wouldn’t have noticed him at all if he hadn’t been, simply put, a knockout. He was dressed plainly, almost sloppily, in an ill-fitting suit, a dingy straw hat, and a gray raincoat, flapping open—and then in the middle of all that, a face you’d knock down your own mother to get next to. 

Patrick slowed down, pretending to look in the front window of a haberdashery. He kept a lookout, and sure enough, the guy slowed down too. 

Patrick pretended to be absorbed in looking at a couple of fedoras in the window, one brown, one gray. There was also a nice scarf, black and silky, and unbidden, his brain supplied a picture of David wearing it. He could picture the silky material against his neck, and maybe Patrick would slowly pull it off and see the silk move against that olive skin—

Patrick yanked his mind back to the matter at hand.

Now the guy was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the wall of a drugstore.

Patrick wondered if this guy was from Raine, too, and if he could expect another beating like the one he’d already gotten—or worse. 

He dug his cigarettes out of his pocket. He walked up to the guy. “Got a light?” he said.

The guy looked down at his pockets and Patrick reached out fast and pulled the guy’s open coat down halfway down his arms, pinning them in place, at the same time he pushed him back into the alley so they were out of sight. 

He went for the guy’s pocket and drew out the guy’s gun. He pointed it at him.

“What’s your name?” he said.

The guy didn’t look scared, just annoyed. He grumbled, “Mutt."

“Who do you work for, Mutt?” Patrick asked.

“None of your business,” he spat.

“Is it Raine?”

Mutt said nothing. Patrick said, “You may notice I’m pointing a gun at you.”

Mutt grunted, “Yeah. That’s right. Raine.”

“Right. Why is Raine interested in me?”

Mutt shrugged. “He told me to follow you. I’m following you.”

Patrick leaned in close to that gorgeous face.“Well, you can tell Mr. Raine, from me, that I’d like him back off. Tell him I said _please.”_

Patrick pulled Mutt’s coat back up and patted his shoulder. He tossed the gun into the alley behind him. “See ya,” he said. 

Patrick ducked into the haberdashery and went out the back way. 

He looked around, just in case, but he was pretty sure Mutt wouldn’t try to keep tailing him. He didn’t see him.

He ducked into a phone booth and dialed the number David had given him. 

“I need to see you,” he said.

*

Patrick knocked on the door of an address on Park Avenue. Of course. Miss Budd on the nose.

David opened the door. He was in his shirtsleeves, no tie, with his collar unbuttoned.

“Did you have trouble getting a cab?” he asked. He stepped aside to let Patrick in.

“No, I took the subway,” Patrick took off his hat.

“Why?” David said. He went into the living room. Patrick followed. He’d never seen David without his suit jacket before. His trousers fit him like a glove—showing his trim waist and his long legs and all the curves in between.

Patrick said, “I always take the subway. Why would I spend a couple bucks if I can spend a dime?”

David said, “And here I thought I was paying for expenses.”

“You are. I’m saving you money.”

“Okay,” David said, shaking his head and looking like he was trying not to smile. “Well, now that you’re _finally_ here, have a seat. I’m just making some coffee. Do you want some?”

“No, thanks.” Patrick sat down and tossed his hat on the coffee table. He looked around. The place was very grand, as he’d expected, with high ceilings and view of the Park, but it also seemed bare, devoid of any personal touches. It didn’t reflect the vivid personality of its owner.

David turned and went back into the kitchen. He called out, “That’s right, you don’t drink coffee, do you? Sorry I don’t have tea, I don’t keep much here.”

Patrick got up and went over to lean against the open doorway of the kitchen. “That’s okay. I’m very particular about my tea. You’d probably just screw it up.”

“Mm, is that right?” David said. He was smiling, a little half smile tucked into his cheek.

Patrick watched as David poured cream and two heaping spoonfuls of sugar in his cup. Apparently David liked it sweet. Then David opened up another little pot and spooned a little of the contents into the coffee.

“What’s that?”

“Cocoa powder,” David said.

“Is it really coffee anymore? Or is it more like hot chocolate?”

David just flicked his fingers at him and took his cup into the living room. Patrick followed and sat back down in his chair.

“So, what did you find out?” David asked. He settled gracefully into the chair opposite Patrick, his coffee in his hand.

Now that he was here, Patrick didn’t want to begin. He just wanted to sit here and watch David drink coffee in his shirtsleeves. The open collar of his shirt exposed the long line of his neck and a few little black curling hairs at the base of his throat. Patrick couldn’t tear his eyes away from that patch of skin, those little hairs.

He pulled his eyes up and saw that David had seen him looking. A shadow of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

Patrick cleared his throat and said, “Actually, do you have a drink? Whiskey or something?”

“In need of some Dutch courage?” David said, amused. “Sure, I think so.”

He got up and went to the sidebar where there was an impressive array of bottles. He poured a tumbler of whiskey and brought it back to Patrick. 

Patrick took a sip, and then another. Maybe he gulped a little. This was good stuff, rich and smoky.

David sat back down. “Did you find out something about Goldman? Is it bad?” he asked.

“Can I tell you a story, David?”

David started to look wary. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

Patrick took another swallow of his drink and then set it down. “The name Bob Currie isn’t new to me. I’ve come across it before, in a professional capacity.”

“All right,” David said.

“I used to work for the NYPD. Part of my job was manning the anonymous tip line. I had to do a little screening, to see which tips were worth pursuing. Most of them were garbage, of course.”

“Sounds ghastly.”

Patrick shrugged. “One day, last November, there was a tip that Bob Currie was connected to a hit and run case. A car crashed into a jewelry store, smashing the window and hitting this poor sap out walking his dog.”

David’s face was calm. He sipped his coffee. He said, “So?"

“So, I was interested to see that this car crash happened the same night as the famous Rosebud diamond robbery. And the name Currie—well.” Patrick spread out his hands.

“Fascinating,” David said.

“Isn’t it? So I passed on the tip to the detective on the case, he followed up the lead, and Currie confessed.”

“But that didn’t satisfy you,” David said.

“No. It felt like something was being swept under the rug. No more questions were asked, no more evidence was looked at. It was all just shoved aside.”

“So did you follow it up?”

“It wasn’t my job. I tried to get the right people to pursue it—and I got fired."

“And that just added to your suspicion, of course.”

“I had a theory that Carl Currie arranged for his brother to take the fall, so he wouldn’t be incriminated in the robbery of the diamond. But now I have a new theory.”

“And what is that?”

“David, why did your sister visit Bob Currie in prison?”

David very gently set his coffee cup down in its saucer.

“Well?” Patrick said.

David said, “Maybe I’ll have a drink too.”

He went back to the sidebar. Patrick followed him. 

Patrick said, “Can you tell me why she also went to visit Theodore Mullens, the hit and run victim?”

David pulled the stopper out of the decanter of whiskey. A very nice crystal decanter. “I have no idea,” he said.

“Shall I tell you what I think?” Patrick said.

“I feel like you’re about to,” David said.

“I think your sister was the mystery woman in the car that night. The Harlequin Thief.”

David stilled, his hand on the bottle.

“Was she?” Patrick said.

David said, without looking at him, “You don’t have any basis for thinking that. It’s just wild speculation.”

David was definitely nervous. Patrick felt he was on the right track.

David poured his drink. The whiskey slopped a little over his hand. He licked it. Patrick watched, his eyes helplessly drawn to that hand, that mouth. 

Again he felt the desire to just drop this, to stop talking about the case, talk to David about anything else. Everything else.

Patrick said, “I was thinking, what would a very prominent, wealthy family do if they wanted to get their daughter off the hook, after she got mixed up in something and got in over her head?”

“You don’t know my sister,” David said. “She doesn’t get in over her head.”

“Did your sister steal your mother’s diamond that night?”

“That’s quite an accusation.”

“I know.” 

David took a drink of his whiskey and said, “Why would my sister steal from her own family?”

“There are any number of reasons someone might do that.”

“Well, then, why would she go about it in this roundabout way, get involved with a bunch of criminals, when she could just walk into my mother’s room and take the diamond anytime, herself?”

“Maybe it was a cover to throw suspicion away from herself. Maybe she owed Carl Currie money. I don’t know, David. But I think you do.”

“I think you’ve lost your mind,” David said flatly.

David went back to his chair and sat down. He sipped his whiskey and set it down He got out one of his little brown cigarettes. His hands were shaking. Patrick dug out his matches and gave him a light.

He smoked. Patrick waited.

David said, “What if I told you that none of this has anything to do with what I’m paying you for, and you should leave it alone?”

“I would find that very difficult to do.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Patrick said, “The witness said there were three men in the car. Were you one of them?”

“So now I’m a thief too,” David said, throwing up his hands.

“I’m just asking.”

“Oh, you’re just asking,” David said mockingly.

“David, I can’t help you if you won’t confide in me.”

“You want to help me? I hired you to find some dirt on Eli Goldman. Instead you go rushing off on this wild goose chase thinking you’ve found the thief of the Rosebud diamond. You cracked the case no one could solve! You have righted an injustice and proved that you were right all along! And those short-sighted bureaucrats who fired you, well, they were very wrong, weren’t they? Hail the conquering hero!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Patrick said shortly.

David arched an eyebrow at him. 

The phone rang. “Don’t answer it,” Patrick said. “David, please believe that—I do, I really do want to help you.”

David narrowed his eyes at him. The phone rang again. “I should see who that is,” he said. He crossed the room and picked up the receiver.

Patrick turned to watch as David listened to the person on the other end of the line, his body gradually growing tense as a bowstring.

Then he said, “Stay where you are. I’m coming home.” He hung up. “I have to go,” he said to Patrick. 

Patrick stood up. ”Was that your sister? Did she get another blackmail demand?”

“No, this is, um, a totally different matter,” David said, but he didn’t meet Patrick’s eye.

“I don’t believe you.”

David said, “That’s your choice.”

“Let me come with you.”

“No. I haven’t told her I’m consulting you. It would just upset her.”

Patrick said, “I can help you. We can—this is an opportunity for us to catch Goldman in the act, make him back off.”

“Mm hm,” David said. “Excuse me, I need to change.” He turned and went out of the room. He came out with his tie knotted and suit jacket buttoned. He looked sleek and unapproachable.

Patrick had a sudden urge to grab him, to kiss that smooth mask off his face, to crack David open and make him show Patrick all of his thoughts, all of his feelings and everything that made him tick.

“Will you call me as soon as you know anything?” Patrick said.

“Of course I will let you know everything it is your business to know, Mr. Brewer.” David’s voice was crisp. Like he was talking to a servant. To a stranger. To nobody.

*

Patrick took the train back to his office. He sat down at his desk. He was restless. He kept thinking about his conversation with David, replaying it in his mind. He shouldn’t have accused him like that.

He heard the phone ring in the outer office and tensed up. Miss Budd’s voice came over the intercom. “Mr. Butani for you.”

Ray’s voice came gleefully over the line. “I have something for you, Patrick!”

Ray said he had heard from one of his sources that Goldman had been making large withdrawals from his bank account, starting about eight months ago. And in September, a month ago, he’d tried to apply for a large loan.

“Did he get it?” Patrick asked.

“No, he was turned down."

“Hmm. Any idea what he could be spending it on?”

“That, I do not know. Perhaps he has a gambling problem! Or he takes drugs. Or perhaps he is in love.”

Patrick grunted. “He’s in love? Or some dame is taking him for a ride?”

“Those are not mutually exclusive, Patrick.”

Patrick scoffed.

Ray sighed. “You watch out. It’s the cynics like you that fall the hardest.”

Patrick ignored that. He thanked Ray and hung up. 

He lit a cigarette. This was a good lead.

Eli Goldman had no criminal record, no hint of impropriety, until this. Patrick would bet the first blackmail demand came after he was turned down for the loan. Whatever he needed money for was pressing. 

That likely meant he was desperate. And desperate men were unpredictable. 

And David was going to try to deal with Goldman on his own, Patrick was sure of it.

Patrick picked up the phone and called David’s number. There was no answer. 

At five o’clock he went home. He tried to call David again before he went to bed. No answer.

*

The next day, Patrick spent the morning attempting to catch up on his other cases, but he couldn’t focus.

Miss Budd came in. “What’s eating you, boss? You’ve been pacing around like a cat in heat all morning.”

He gave her a look. “Really?”

“Sorry,” she said. “But seriously, what’s up?”

“You know that David Rose case? The blackmail case? I had a lead, I thought, but when I went to David with it I think I spooked him.”

“How?”

“I kind of accused him and his sister of stealing the Rosebud diamond.”

Miss Budd opened her eyes up wide. She said, “Did they?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said miserably. “I had a theory, but—I don’t know anymore. I’m worried he’s trying to deal with the blackmailer on his own.”

“Not much you can do for a client who doesn’t want your help anymore,” Miss Budd said.

“But he didn’t fire me,” he said. “I’m still on the case, Miss Budd.” He stood up and reached for his coat.

“Look, boss, maybe you’d better think twice about this.”

“I’ll be back later,” he said, and went out.

*

He took the subway to Eli Goldman’s apartment building and hung around in the restaurant on the ground floor for awhile. He asked the waiters and the doorman if they knew Mr. Goldman. They all did, but they all said the same thing. Quiet, friendly, polite, always smiled and tipped well. Never talked to him beyond that.

Patrick wasn’t the type of detective to throw his weight around or take unnecessary risks. He rarely carried a gun, he didn’t rough people up. He depended on patience and attention to detail. He sat out on stakeouts, he shadowed people, he went to records offices. He gathered information. But when he was sure, he pounced.

It was boring. It was safe. It worked.

But not today. Today he was jumping out of his skin. If he didn’t investigate the case, he’d do something stupid like go see David and … do something stupid. 

He decided to call on Bob Currie.

He ignored the part of his brain that said this was probably stupid as well, also dangerous. Raine had him beaten to a pulp for just asking about the guy.

He took the train to Chelsea and waited around Currie’s building until someone walked in the front entrance, then slipped in behind them. He knocked on Currie’s door.

Patrick didn’t use disguises and alternate identities much. He was amazed at what people were willing to accept without question, as long as you made it sound straightforward, matter of fact, and a little boring. It helped that Patrick had a face as bland and unmemorable as a bowl of pudding.

But he did have a couple of cover identities he used from time to time. In this case, Patrick would be Ian Oliver, insurance adjustor. He had found that there were few things people found less interesting than insurance.

When Bob Currie answered the door, Patrick introduced himself as Mr. Oliver from Principal Insurance Company.

Currie indicated a chair for Patrick to sit in, and then sat down across from him.

Patrick studied him. Currie was old, and stooped, and had a permanent hangdog expression. And yet someone, probably Raine, had gone to a lot of trouble to get him out of prison.

Patrick said, “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Currie.” Patrick explained he was working on a claim for damages by the jewelry store Reynolds and Sons. He droned through a description of the hit and run accident, reading out of a little notebook. Then he said, “I’m here to inform you that Principal Insurance is seeking restitution from you for the damages and stolen merchandise.”

Currie had been listening politely, but at that his mouth fell open. “What?” he said. “But that must be thousands of dollars!”

“Twelve thousand, three hundred forty-three dollars, to be precise,” Patrick said. He snapped his notebook closed.

“I don’t have that kind of dough, Mr. Oliver,” Currie said. He looked panicky.

“Well, you claim you were alone in the car. Unless you’d like to revise that statement …” 

“Yeah, I do,” Currie said eagerly. “I want to revise my statement. I wasn’t alone. There were three other people in that car.”

Patrick kept his face impassive. He flipped to another page in his notebook. “Who were they?”

“My brother, Carl Currie—but he’s dead—”

Patrick jotted down the name, keeping his eyes down. “We can make a claim against his estate,” he said. “Who else?”

“Uh, well. There was a young guy. Dark hair. Handsome. I hadn’t met him before."

Patrick’s heart sank. David.

“Mutt Schitt was his name.”

 _Mutt?_ Patrick remembered the guy who had been following him the other night, who Patrick had taken for a low level Raine thug. Mutt was in the car the night the Rosebud diamond was stolen?

He pushed that thought aside. “Anyone else?” he said.

Bob said, “Uh, a dame.”

“What was her name?” Patrick said, his pen poised over his notebook.

Currie shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Patrick wondered if Currie was trying to be gallant. He tried, “There’s no risk of criminal charges here. This is a civil action.”

“No, I really don’t know,” Currie said. “She wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“Wait, she wasn’t supposed to be there? What do you mean?”

But Currie looked scared. “Nah, I—uh, I don’t have anything else to say.”

“Can you tell me what she looked like?”

Currie’s lips were pressed together, like he was trying to physically prevent any more words from coming out.

Patrick decided to go for it. “Was the lady Alexis Rose, by any chance?”

Currie just blinked at him.

A woman came into the living room. “Who’s this, Bob?” she said.

“Ian Oliver, ma’am,” Patrick said, standing up. “Principal Insurance.”

Currie said, “Gwen, that jewelry store is trying to sue me!” 

“Trying to recover damages,” Patrick said smoothly. “We’re interested in who else might have been in the car that night.”

Mrs. Currie put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I think you should leave now,” she said. “My husband doesn’t want to answer any more of your questions.”

Currie patted his wife’s hand.

Patrick’s eyes followed the movement. His eyes caught on a glint on Mrs. Currie’s wrist, mostly hidden by her sleeve. “That’s a swell bracelet,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

She pulled her sleeve down. “My great aunt,” she said. “She died and left it to me.”

“Recently?” he said. “I’m looking for something for my wife. That looks like just the ticket. Can I see?”

Currie said, “It _is_ swell. A tennis bracelet. Show him, honey.”

She tucked it away more firmly in her sleeve. “It’s antique,” she said. “You wouldn’t be able to find one like it.”

Patrick said, “I’d like to see it, anyway. For inspiration. My wife sure does love pretty jewelry.”

Mrs. Currie said, “Goodbye, Mr. Oliver.”

Patrick saw he wasn’t going to get any more out of them, so he said goodbye and left.

In the elevator, he tried to think over everything he had just learned, but one thought was uppermost:

Mutt Schitt. Not David. David wasn’t in the car. His sister was, maybe, but not David.

There was a bank of phone booths in the lobby, and Patrick wheeled over to one and put in his nickel. He gave David’s number to the operator and listened to the phone ring and ring.

He hung up.

Mutt. This was a lead, anyway. As he exited the building, Patrick kept his eyes peeled for anyone following him. He walked around for a long time hoping to see a tail. But there was no one he could see.

He still couldn’t face going home. 

He decided to go back to Goldman’s apartment building. He bought a newspaper and camped out in the restaurant, as before. He ordered the special, beef stew with bread and coffee for fifty cents. He asked for tea instead of coffee and got what he expected: lukewarm water and a Lipton tea bag. He dunked it resignedly. 

He watched the people come and go as he ate his dinner and pretended to be absorbed in the newspaper.

Goldman didn’t show.

It was eight o’clock. He’d wait until nine when the restaurant closed, and then head home. He asked for more hot water for his tea and opened up his paper to read it again.

Then he saw it. In the local news, below the fold, a single column: 

**Man Found Dead**

_Matthew “Mutt” Schitt, was found dead in his home by his mother, Jocelyn Schitt, when she came by to drop off his laundry. Death was due to a gunshot wound. Police are investigating._

Patrick read the article twice. There wasn’t much more.

It was possible it was just a coincidence. The man worked for Seb Raine, he could have been shot for any number of reasons. 

But Patrick was pretty sure it was no coincidence that Mutt was in the car that night, and now he was dead.

*

The next day, he called Miss Budd into his office. He ran down what he’d learned yesterday. He liked talking over his cases with Miss Budd. She was sharp and didn’t miss a trick.

She said, “So it’s Carl and Bob Currie in the car, and Mutt Schitt, and a mysterious woman in a Harlequin mask.”

“Possibly Alexis Rose."

She said, “So Carl Currie and Mutt Schitt are both dead. That doesn’t look so good for the other two.”

“Yeah.” He wondered if he should warn David, that his sister was possibly in danger. He tried David’s number again. No answer. He asked Miss Budd to look up the number for Johnny Rose, but no dice. Probably unlisted.

At six o’clock, Patrick went home. He made scrambled eggs for dinner and ate them over the sink. 

He turned on the radio. _Richard Diamond, Private Detective_ was just starting. Patrick liked it, even though it was frequently silly and always unrealistic. Diamond always came out on top.

Patrick poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat down to listen. Diamond was talking to his rich girlfriend, Helen, and she was fawning over him, telling him how devastated she would be if anything happened to him. Another difference between him and Diamond. Nobody to tell him that.

His mind drifted. He remembered David in this room, sipping whiskey just like Patrick was right now—maybe it was even this glass—saying, _do you ever wonder how you ended up living the life you’re living?_

Yes. All the time. 

The program ended. Diamond had solved the case, all in 30 minutes with breaks for commercials. Patrick switched off the radio and decided to go to bed. He hadn’t slept very well the night before.

He fell asleep quickly, and woke up with a jerk to the phone ringing. He turned on his bedside lamp to check the clock. It was after 3 AM.

He picked up the receiver. “Brewer,” he grunted.

“Did I wake you?” 

It was David.

Patrick’s sleepiness washed away in a flood of adrenaline. “No, I was up.”

“Sure you were,” David said. “I bet you’re in bed right now. You’re in bed in your jammies.” David’s voice was a little different, blurred at the edges. He was a little tipsy, maybe.

A hundred questions crowded to the tip of Patrick’s tongue. “Where are you?” was the one he let fall.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” A lilt in his voice.

“I would.”

“I’m nowhere,” David said.

“So what happened with your sister?”

“What do you mean?”

“The blackmail. Did you hear from Goldman?”

David said, “Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. I’ve been worrying about it, David. When I didn’t hear from you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m always fine,” David said, stretching out the last word.

“I do, though. David, I don’t—I don’t like where we left things.”

“Mmm. Let’s not talk about it.”

“Then what should we talk about?” 

“Let’s talk about you,” David’s voice dropped down a register, a little purr creeping in.

“That’s a pretty boring subject.”

“I think it’s a fascinating subject, Mr. Brewer.”

“Patrick.”

“Patrick,” David said, like he was tasting the word in his mouth.

Patrick should really press David about the case. But this was—he lay back in bed. He liked David’s voice like this, soft and low in his ear. 

“What do you want to know?” Patrick said.

“Everything. I want to know everything. Tell me everything about Patrick Brewer. How did you get to be so strong and steady and … strong.”

Patrick laughed a little. “You think I’m strong?”

“You have strong arms. They’re so nice and thick.” Now there was a definite purr.

Patrick caught his breath. “Thank you, David.”

“How are your bruises? Your arms and chest were all beat up.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know you have to say that, tough guy,” David said. “But you don’t have to pretend with me. You can say, ‘David, it still hurts.’” 

“David, it still hurts,” Patrick said it quick, like he was just parroting the words, like flirting back, but it felt like something. Saying it.

David made a sympathetic sound. He murmured, “I wish I could help you.”

“You did help me.”

“I did, didn’t I? I put my hands all over you and made you feel better.”

Patrick drew a breath. He slipped his hand between the buttons of his pajama shirt and touched the bare skin of his chest, where David had touched.“You did, David.”

“I like you, Patrick.”

Patrick’s heart was pounding. “I like you too.”

Then David’s voice, very blurred: “You make me feel—” 

“What?”

“Like I can count on you.”

Patrick said quickly, “You can.”

“I want to. I’d like to feel like I could count on someone.” 

“I want you to.” Patrick said in a rush, “Sometimes I feel like—like I’d do anything for you.”

David said, “Really?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. He meant it. He felt like he was choking on it, on how much he meant it.

“I wonder if that’s true.”

“It is.” As Patrick said this, he heard another voice in the room on David’s end. A deep voice, a man’s voice. Patrick couldn’t make out the words. Then everything got muffled, as David covered the mouthpiece.

“David,” Patrick said.

David’s voice. “I have to go,” he said. His voice was different now. Brisk and ordinary. “Bye.”

“Come see me tomorrow,” Patrick said quickly. 

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. It’s nice to think about, but—”

Patrick said, “Come to my office at lunchtime. I’ll take you to lunch. I know a great Chinese joint. The best wontons you ever tasted.”

David said, “I do love wontons.” His voice was soft.

Patrick felt a rush of fierce satisfaction. “Come by at noon.”

Silence. Then David said, “All right.”

“Perfect. That’s perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow, David.”

But David had hung up. 

Patrick hung up the receiver and lay back in bed. David was going to come see him tomorrow. They were going to have wontons. David trusted him. He wanted to count on him. He said he liked his arms. 

Patrick put his hands on his upper arms and stroked down to his forearms. He tucked his hands in his pajama sleeves, touching bare skin, stroking a little. He pretended David’s hands were touching them, saying _I like your arms, they’re so nice and thick._

He slid his hand inside his pajama pants.

When he was done, he lay facing the empty half of the bed. He touched the pillow. It was nice and cool. He imagined a dark head lying on it. It wasn't hard to imagine at all.

*

The next morning, he got to the office early. Miss Budd wasn’t there. He got a lot of work done.

When Miss Budd came in, she said, “Morning, boss. Someone’s up early,” she said.

“Yeah. I’ve been up since five.”

“Couldn’t sleep, eh?"

“Yeah. Thinking about—” He broke off, not sure how to finish that sentence. His eyes caught on the dusty percolator on the table. “We should clean that up, get some coffee for it.”

“We don’t drink coffee.”

“But other people do. This is a high class operation now, Miss Budd. We should get coffee, cream, those little packets of sugar, and cocoa powder.”

“Cocoa powder?”

“Yes, Miss Budd. Some people like to sprinkle a little cocoa powder on their coffee. It’s classy.”

“And by some people, do you mean David Rose?”

He gave her a little shake of his head. “What makes you think of him?”

“He’s the classiest guy we’ve met lately.”

Patrick said. “Do you think so?” He knew the answer. He knew David was classy. He just wanted to hear Miss Budd talk about him.

She said, “First class all the way. And so easy on the eyes, right?” 

Patrick’s heart gave a little jump. “Oh, I don’t know.” he said.

“I think so. Maybe you do too.” There was a question mark in her voice.

Patrick didn’t answer. 

Miss Budd turned away to hang up her coat. Her voice was casual as she said, “I want you to know—if you do, that’s okay with me, boss.”

She glanced at him, looked down, and glanced back. He gave her a jerky nod.

She gave him a little salute. “All right, boss. I’ll be back in a jiff with the coffee.”

He cleared his throat. “Don’t forget the cream and sugar,” he said.

“And the cocoa powder. I won’t forget.”

Patrick said, “Get some chocolates, too. Those little fancy ones, the ones that come in the pretty box.” He’d give them to David today.

“Chocolates. You got it.” 

She went out.

In the empty office, he laughed out loud.

*

Patrick paced. Miss Budd wasn’t back yet when there was a knock at the door. He opened it to find a young boy standing there. He looked around ten or eleven. 

“Can I help you?”

“Are you Mr. Patrick Brewer?” the kid said.

“Yes.” 

The boy shoved an envelope at him and then took off.

Patrick opened the envelope and unfolded the letter that was inside. It said:

_Sorry to miss the wontons but can you come to my place instead? Need to talk to you in private._

_—D_

Patrick touched the initial, in David’s looping script. 

He couldn’t wait for the elevator. He went down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He came out of the stairwell and ran smack into Miss Budd, holding a bag of groceries. Right. David’s chocolates.

Patrick scooped the bag out of her hands. “I’ll take these,” he said. “I’ll be back later!”

He didn’t want to wait for the subway, either. He hailed a cab and climbed in the back.

*

He should have taken the subway. Traffic was slow and his taxi crawled uptown. It was a hot day; one of those October days that felt like July. Patrick was worried the chocolates would melt. He should have gotten something else. Lemon drops. Did David like lemon drops? He bet David liked anything sweet. He would ask him. He wanted to know everything about David.

Finally the cab pulled up in front of the Park Avenue apartment building. Patrick paid the driver and went up to David’s apartment. He knocked, but there was no answer. It looked like David wasn’t here yet.

He waited.

It was very quiet.

He felt conspicuous, waiting in the hall, holding the bag of groceries.

Five minutes went by. Then ten. Then fifteen.

He decided to try the door, and to his surprise the doorknob turned in his hand.

He pushed open the door and it hit something. Something was blocking it. He eased in through the gap, turned, and saw the body of a dark haired man, face down inside the door.

 _David,_ was his first panicked thought. He knelt by the body, practically diving to the floor.

It wasn’t him. This man was shorter, stockier. It wasn’t him.

He put his hand on the guy’s neck, to feel for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

Patrick got his hands under the body to tilt it up so he could see his face.

It was Eli Goldman.

As the body fell back into place, Patrick saw a gun, half hidden underneath. He recognized it.

It was his gun. 

Then he heard a pounding down the hall. Running steps. Boots. Someone was coming. More than one person. Police?

If it was the police, if they found him here like this—

The footsteps got closer. Patrick’s hand hovered over the gun. His mind raced, trying to think of what to do.

The door banged. Three of them came in. Police. “Hands up! Don’t move.”

Patrick was standing. The body and the bag of groceries at his feet. Facing the three of them, their guns drawn, pointing at him. He raised his hands in the air.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Thank you for saving me the trouble of calling you.”

*

These officers were not the brightest guys. They brought him in and patted him down, threw him in a chair and gave him the business. 

Patrick knew a bunch of smarter guys were now going over David’s apartment, looking in every nook and cranny, looking for the murder weapon. Or anything else they could find.

He could see these two wanted to get an easy win by shaking a confession out of him. He sat silent as they peppered him with questions, his bag of groceries at his feet. 

He was there a long time. But they let him go, eventually. He thought they wouldn’t have enough to charge, but you couldn’t always predict these things. But without a murder weapon, he thought the case would be too weak, and it looked like he was right.

He also mentioned his cab ride, and someone finally did their job and tracked down the driver and got a confirmation of a decent alibi.

Well, that was one thing. Patrick had been so damn eager to get to David he’d taken a cab. If he’d taken the anonymous subway, like he usually did, if they found his gun and him standing over the body, it would have been a nice airtight case. 

When they let him go, Patrick said, “One question. Why did you go to that apartment?”

They looked at each other. “Someone called it in.”

“They leave a name?”

“No,” one said, at the same time the other one said, “None of your business.”

“Okay, thanks,” he said.

“Beat it,” they said. “But don’t leave town. This isn’t over.” They were annoyed. Well, he would be too.

When Patrick finally got back to his apartment, he locked the door behind him. He threw away the chocolates and poured the cream down the sink. He put the sugar and the cocoa powder in the cupboard. 

Then he opened up the coffee can, and drew out his gun from among the grounds.

 _I’d do anything for you,_ he’d said to David.

Maybe David took him at his word.

*

When Patrick came into the office the next day, Miss Budd had a stack of envelopes on her desk and was clacking away on her typewriter. Invoice day.

He grunted in response to her morning greeting as he hung up his hat and coat.

“Looks like someone’s time in jail didn’t agree with him,” she said.

He grunted again. It hadn’t.

“Question,” Miss Budd said. “What do you want me to do with this?” She was holding the envelope David had given him. “Shall I put it in the bank?”

He took it. He opened the envelope and looked in. It was all still there except for the money he’d taken for cab rides. He took out the bills. 

They smelled like cologne. They smelled like David.

He handed it back to her. “Just put it back in the cash box for now,” he said.

“I don’t like this,” she said. “That guy should pay up. Swanning off and leaving you to get nicked on a murder charge. What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

Miss Budd looked indignant on his behalf. That was nice of her.

Patrick dug his .22 out of his pocket and dropped on her desk. It clunked.

“Your gun,” Miss Budd said. “What about it?”

“This is the murder weapon. Probably. It was under the body.”

Her eyes got big. “The police didn’t find it?”

“I managed to hide it.”

“That was lucky.”

“Yeah.”

“So you think it was a setup?”

That was the question. He said, “I think so. There was a note from—from Mr. Rose, asking me to come to his apartment. Where I promptly found the body.”

“Oh, boy,” Miss Budd said. “Well, you seem very calm. I’d be running around pounding my chest and howling at the moon.”

Patrick shrugged.

“Where is Mr. Rose?”

“I haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”

“Also suspicious.”

Patrick said, “Let me run another scenario by you.”

“What?”

“What if Mr. Rose sent me the note, then Goldman came over, they fought, and David shot him in self-defense. Then he got spooked and ran away. Neighbor heard the gunshots and called the police.”

Miss Budd looked sympathetic. Bad sign.

“With your gun?” she said.

He sighed. “Yeah.”

“Sounds like you better find him.”

*

Miss Rose said, “I don’t keep tabs on my brother, Mr. Brewer. Even if I did, I don’t know why I would tell you.”

Miss Alexis Rose was giving him nothing. She was tall like her brother was, all arms and legs and curling blonde hair.

He was standing in a very large drawing room with high ceilings and white walls and wall to wall white carpet. It was another hot fall day, and the sunlight streaming in and landing on the white carpet was giving him a headache.

He’d gotten the Rose family’s unlisted number by sweet-talking one of his records office contacts. And he’d set up this meeting with Miss Rose by saying he needed to talk to her about her brother.

He’d rehearsed this. He tried again. “Mr. Rose hired me to do some work for him. He was supposed to call me three days ago. I haven’t heard from him and he’s not answering his phone. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

She shrugged. “What were you working on for him?”

“He hired me for a case. I’m a detective.”

Her eyes widened with, it seemed, delight. “A detective!” she said. “Are you one of those people that follows people around with a little camera, in order to catch Mr. Smith cheating on Mrs. Smith? What a fun little racket for you.”

“It’s a living,” he said.

“I bet you’re good at getting people to tell you their secrets, with that sweet button face of yours.”

“Does it make you want to tell me all of yours?”

She dropped down on the white sofa, and drew a cigarette out of a silver box on a glass end table. She fitted it into a long cigarette holder. 

He came over and lit it for her. He sat down in the chair opposite.

“Maybe,” she said. “Why don’t you try me?” She looked amused.

 _Are you the Harlequin Thief?_ he wanted to ask. But, probably not the time.

“Have you seen David since Wednesday?” he asked.

“Why?”

“He just disappeared. Aren’t you worried he might be in trouble?”

“That is the sweetest thing, that you’re worried about him.” she said.

“Actually, I just asked if _you_ were worried.”

“But you are, aren’t you?” She blew out a stream of smoke. “David is like the cat with nine lives, Mr. Brewer. He’ll be fine.”

She seemed at ease, unconcerned, and yet … he said quietly, “Miss Rose, I have reason to think something might have happened. And I’d very much like to talk to your brother. If you see him, if you could tell him that. Just tell him I’d like to talk."

Her eyes narrowed on him thoughtfully. He tried not to squirm. She smiled and said, “Okay, Button-face. I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” he said. He stood up to leave. He said, “Oh, David told me congratulations might soon be in order?”

“What?”

“He said you were on the verge of announcing your engagement.”

“To who?” Miss Rose said. She looked mystified.

“Never mind, I must have misunderstood,” Patrick said. “Please tell David what I said.”

*

That night, the heat hadn’t let up at all. His apartment was like an oven. The windows were open and he shrugged off his shirt and tossed it in the laundry hamper. He splashed cool water on his face. He dried off with a towel and put on a fresh undershirt. It didn’t help much.

He poured a whiskey. He was more sure than ever that David’s sister was the Harlequin Thief, and that she was being blackmailed over it. The story David had told about the racy pictures and the engagement to Stavros Valli was obviously false.

Another lie. Add it to the pile.

There was a knock at the door. He went to answer it.

It was David.

“I hear you’ve been looking for me,” David said.

“Yes,” Patrick said.

David walked in to his apartment. “I came to ask you to stop," he said.

Patrick closed the door. “Why?”

“The case is over,” David said. “Eli Goldman is dead.”

“What happened, David?”

David shrugged. 

“Did you try to confront Goldman?” Patrick said.

David was silent. Then he said, “I heard they arrested you.”

“They brought me in, but they couldn’t make it stick.”

“Why not?”

Patrick said, his words tumbling out, “David, if you need—I’m a detective. I can help show he was blackmailing your sister, he was dangerous, he was threatening. David, don’t you see, if you—if it was self-defense, I can help you.”

“You were the one who was arrested, not me. Seems like you should be asking for help, not offering it.”

“You know I didn’t kill him.”

“Do I?” David tipped his head to one side. “So you’re saying you want to defend me on a murder charge, is that right?”

“Yes, if you need it.”

Something flitted across David’s face, too fast for Patrick to interpret. “I don’t need it. It’s been taken care of.”

Patrick’s voice hardened. “By setting me up? That plan didn’t work so well, did it?”

A flicker of a smile passed over David’s face. “I told him you were too smart.”

“You told who?"

David turned away.

“Who, David?”

David turned back. He lifted his chin. “I guess I might as well tell you. I’ve gone back to Sebastien.”

Patrick felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “Oh,” he said.

David looked at him. He looked perfectly composed. “Are you surprised?”

“Well, I thought you said—a few days ago, you seemed like you had a different opinion.”

“I changed my mind.” David walked across the room. He was casual, at ease. Indifferent.

“I see.” Patrick felt white hot jealousy rise up in him, hot and blinding. Before he knew it he was across the room. He was right next to David, leaning in close. David backed away. Patrick followed, until David was against the wall. Patrick put his hands on the wall, on either side of his head, bracketing him in.

“What are you doing?” David said.

Patrick said. “You said you never wanted to see Raine again.”

“Did I?”

“You said that you preferred”—Patrick lifted a hand, traced a finger along David’s jaw—“a more delicate touch than he was capable of.”

David turned his head. “Maybe I changed my mind. Maybe I like it a little rough.”

Patrick pushed closer. Now they were pressed together from chest to thigh.

“You like it rough?” Patrick said.

“Y-yes,” David said.

“And you want him to give it to you?”

David kept his face turned away. “It’s—it’s always been him. I can’t help it, I guess.”

Patrick’s brought his hand to David’s hair and tangled his hand in it. He gripped his head and turned David’s face so he had to look at Patrick, so his mouth was right up against his. David made a small sound and his lips parted a little. He was so close. Patrick could feel the warmth of his lips, feel his hot breath coming fast in little gasps.

Then Patrick wrenched himself away. He walked over to the other side of the room. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter if you do or not,” David said. 

Patrick said, “I guess not.”

David said. “You’re just like him, you know.”

Patrick turned away, turned his back on David and looked out the open window. He had to get ahold of himself. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He shook one out of the pack.

David went on, “In fact, you’re worse. He doesn’t pretend to be better. One kiss, a few little words, and you think you own me. Well, you don’t. I decide. I decide who I want to be with. And I want to be with him.” David’s voice had risen while he spoke. 

Patrick didn’t answer. He stayed turned away. He put a cigarette in his mouth. He struck a match and lit it. His hand was shaking, but not much.

“Well?” David said.

Patrick turned around to face him. “Okay, David.”

“What?” David’s hands were clenched at his sides.

“Okay, I get it.”

“What do you get?”

“You were lying to me,” Patrick said. “You don’t want me. Sorry I misunderstood.” He took a drag on his cigarette. He blew out the smoke. His voice was steady. His hands were steady.

David lifted his chin. “I wasn’t lying. You are appealing, in a way.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I help it if I prefer him?”

“I guess not.” Patrick said.

They stood looking at each other.

Patrick said, “Goodbye, then.” 

“Goodbye.” David turned away. If his eyes seemed to glisten a little, it was probably just a trick of the light.


	3. The Masquerade

Patrick had been through a lot worse things than this. That was just a fact.

The problem was, he couldn’t stop thinking. Thinking about him. David Rose had gotten under his skin, into his head, and he couldn’t shake it.

His detective brain said: you were played for a fool. You let a pair of long legs and a gorgeous face hypnotize you and cloud your judgment. He’s a liar, and might be a murderer. And even if he isn’t, he made it clear he prefers a pig like Raine. That’s who you want? This is the guy you’re ripping your heart out for?

Yes. Yes.

Here was the thing: Patrick should be used to this. He _was_ used to it. Being alone. He’d been alone his whole life, really. Even when he was with Rachel, he’d been alone. Alone in his head.

In France, when he first found out about himself, and he knew where to go to have encounters with other men, it had been such a rush at first, and he’d gone back, again and again, breaking his marriage vows. Such as they were.

And, now, here in New York. You didn’t work at a police station and not know where the bathhouses were, or that the Ramble in Central Park was the place to walk in the dark evening, and look for a stranger’s eye that wanted to be caught.

That was all right. He did that, sometimes. But sometimes, he wanted more. He wanted someone to be with, not just someone to take the edge off. Someone to talk to and hold hands with and kiss on the cheek and curl up on the sofa and listen to the radio with. What he had with Rachel, but with someone different. Someone where it felt right.

But he knew he would never have those things, that other people had. He’d accepted that, long ago. It didn’t bother him, except when it did.

*

Miss Budd dropped a newspaper in front of him. “What do you think of that?”

Patrick picked it up. The headline blared:

**Rose Family Halloween Masquerade “Must Go On”**

Underneath, in smaller letters, it said:

**Moira Rose: “They can steal our diamond but they cannot steal our joy”**

Miss Budd tried to take the newspaper back. He held it. “I’ll give it back in a minute.”

He read the article quickly, his eyes searching for any mention of David. There, near the end. _Mr. David Rose plans to attend but is keeping mum on his costume. He’ll be accompanied by his best buddy, man-about-town Sebastien Raine. Consider us all agog, Mr. Rose!_

There was a picture, which Patrick noted was that old picture Ray had shown him.

_His best buddy Sebastien Raine._

Well. Good for him. 

Patrick handed the paper back to Miss Budd. She was looking at him like she was deciding whether to say something, when the exterior door opened, and Bob Currie stumbled in, bent over, clutching his stomach.

“Mr. Currie! What’s wrong?” Patrick said, rushing to him.

Currie gasped out, “Need your help.”

“What happened?” Patrick said. He and Miss Budd helped him get into a chair.

“He shot me,” Currie said.

“Who shot you?”

Currie said, “Raine.”

“I’ll call the hospital,” Miss Budd said. “And the police.” She put her hand on the phone.

“No, wait,” Currie said, gasping out the words. “I came—I need you to find—my wife.”

“Why?”

“I think—I think she’s going to that party tonight. The Rose party.”

“So?”

“I think she’s going to try to kill—David Rose.”

“What? Why?” Patrick exclaimed.

“She thinks—he killed someone,” Currie said. “She was—she was stepping out on me. With—” he broke off, groaning.

Several things clicked together in his head. Patrick said, “Eli Goldman? Was your wife having an affair with Eli Goldman?”

Currie nodded. “Yeah. Goldman. That’s him.”

Patrick remembered the diamond bracelet he’s seen on Mrs. Currie’s wrist. He’d thought Bob Currie was working with Goldman, and he’d given his wife Miss Rose’s bracelet. But if it was _Gwen_ Currie who was the other blackmailer—if she was the one Goldman was in love with, who he was spending his money on—

Currie gasped out, “I did something. Then I—I asked the wrong guy to—for help. Tell her I’m sorry.”

“For what? Who did you ask? Was it Raine?”

“Find Gwen,” Currie said, and slumped in his chair. His eyes fluttered shut.

Patrick said, “Call an ambulance.”

Miss Budd picked up the phone. “And the police?”

“No, not yet.”

He had to think. He had to figure out what to do. His head was pounding. _David._

Miss Budd finished ordering the ambulance and hung up. She said, “You sure you want to stick your neck out for this? Remember what he did to you.”

“I have to,” he said.

She was looking at him with compassion. “Okay,” she said. “What can I do?”

*

Patrick hesitated outside the Rose penthouse door. He looked down at his costume. Black pants, black silk shirt, black sash, black mask, black scarf over his head. Sword at his hip. Don Diego de la Vega, otherwise known as Zorro, at your service.

After his calls to the Rose penthouse yielded nothing, he’d reluctantly agreed that trying to get in to the party in a costume was probably his best bet. Miss Budd had even taken him to her apartment so she could supply him with this costume.

“I feel silly,” he complained, when he came out of her bathroom wearing it.

“Don’t tell me you never wanted to be Zorro,” she said. “I bet you loved Doug Fairbanks as a kid.”

Patrick grunted, but she was kind of right.

When she handed him the tall black boots, designed to be worn over the narrow black pants, they wouldn’t pull all the way up. His thighs were too big.

Miss Budd had cut off the tops, laughing at him all the while.

“Forget it, boss. You look like a peach,” she said, handing him the boots. “You have no idea.”

He brought some of David Rose’s cash in case he had to bribe his way in, but instead, the butler just waved him in. Not what he had expected.

It was quite a party. A dance floor had been cleared and a swanky orchestra played, and all the society swells in their costumes circled the dance floor. Patrick scanned the crowd for David, but didn’t see him. It was hard to tell with everyone in costume. 

Next he looked for Mrs. Currie, but he wasn’t sure if he would be able to recognize her. He’d only met her once. Patrick wished he had been able to ask Currie what type of costume his wife might wear.

He saw another man dressed as Zorro. Now it made sense that the butler had let Patrick in—he had taken him for that guy.

Patrick ducked away, not wanting the guy to see him. 

Patrick saw Alexis Rose, talking to a guy in a dog costume. She had her hair over one eye like Veronica Lake.

Then he saw him—David. He was circling the floor with a woman in a silvery dress. You couldn’t miss him. He was dressed head to toe in white, with a white cape that billowed out with each turn on the dance floor. He had on a narrow white mask, edged with silver, and his black hair was slicked back. Patrick couldn’t tell what the costume was supposed to be, but he looked incredible. Those white pants fit him like a dream. Patrick watched how the fabric moved over his hips and thighs as he danced, how his cape swirled out and molded against his body, over and over.

The song ended and David walked his partner to the side of the room. She drifted away and Patrick took a deep breath and started making his way over to him. Before he could get there, Patrick saw the other Zorro join David.

Patrick studied him. His face was partially obscured by his mask, but Patrick was pretty sure it was Raine. Patrick had to admit Raine looked good in the black costume: all long limbs and lean muscles, graceful as a cat, and at least a head taller than Patrick.

As Patrick watched, Raine bent his head close to David’s. Too close, if you asked Patrick, but nobody was.

Patrick kept his eyes fixed on David. Patrick wanted to see how David reacted to this man, the one he’d chosen over Patrick. Maybe if he saw David melt and smile and lean into a guy like Raine—maybe it would cure him. Maybe he could shake this. So he kept his eyes locked on David’s face, waiting.

He saw David flinch. 

It didn’t last long. Then David smiled, and seemed fine. Patrick didn’t think anyone else would have noticed. It certainly didn’t look like Raine had. But Patrick knew. He knew.

If David wasn’t with Raine for himself, what other reason could he have?

A wild hope, the part of him that never let go of David, that couldn’t let go of him even when he wanted to, leapt up inside him.

He pushed it down. He couldn’t think about that now. He needed to find Gwen Currie, and warn David.

He scanned the room for women who might resemble Mrs. Currie and again came up empty. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to get into the party. Could he warn someone in the Rose family, tell them to make sure no uninvited guests came in? Although that was a little awkward, seeing as he was an uninvited guest himself. 

He caught sight of Alexis Rose close by and approached her.

“Good evening,” she said. Her tone was cold. Then her face changed, “Oh, you’re not Sebastien.”

“Miss Rose, can I speak with you privately? It’s important.”

“Who are you?” You look familiar.”

“I’m Patrick Brewer,” he said. She just looked at him blankly, so he said, “I’m a detective. I came to see you a few days ago, looking for David?”

“Oh, of course! Look how cute you are all dressed up! Love those pants on you.” 

“Can we speak privately?”

Then someone who could only be Moira Rose stepped to the front of the room. 

She was dressed in shimmery black, with a headpiece made up a mass of thin sliver spikes, poking up in all directions. Patrick wondered what she was supposed to be. Probably not a dandelion puffball, which is what she looked like to him.

“Thank you all for coming to our humble soiree,” she said in a lilting voice. “Our celebration of love and resilience and survival in the face of so much adversity! As I always say, the show must go on!”

The crowd applauded politely. 

“In that spirit, I have arranged to perform my famous demon possession scene from my picture, _Desperate Interlude._ Take it away, Mr. Morgan!”

This last was directed at the orchestra conductor. The orchestra launched into a slow song, eerie, heavy on the violins. Mrs. Rose put up her hands and arched her body to the side, and began a slow, sinuous dance.

“Ugh,” Miss Rose said. “Come on, what you have to say can’t be worse than this.”

She gestured for him to follow her, but he said, “I’ll explain why, but I need to stay where I can keep an eye on this room.”

She said, “Oh, this gets more interesting by the minute! All right.”

She led him to some French glass doors that opened out onto a little balcony. Patrick positioned himself so he could look inside and keep an eye David. 

“Miss Rose, I think your brother is in danger.”

She nodded. “Mm, I know,” she said.

“You know?”

“Yeah, he’s spending time with that”—she flicked her fingers in the direction of Raine—“in there. Of course he’s in danger. Again.”

Patrick paused. He said, “All right, we’re coming back to that. But tonight, I have reason to believe someone is coming here to try to kill him. So I need you to you to talk to your butler, prevent anyone from coming in who hasn’t been invited, get some guards to help out, police maybe.”

Alexis laughed. She was maybe a little tipsy. “Oh, okay, I get it. Is this one of those party stunts? This is good. Tell me more, Mr. Brewer.”

“No, that’s not—” he could feel his voice rising, the desperation bleeding out. He stopped, took a breath. “I’m very serious, Miss Rose. Your brother hired me to investigate the person who was blackmailing you, and that person was shot a few days ago.”

That got her attention. “All right, Mr. Brewer, this isn’t funny anymore.”

“How much has your brother told you of what happened?” He glanced up to make sure David was in view, and saw him go back on the dance floor with a different woman. He relaxed. They had til the end of the song, at least.

Miss Rose said, “He told me he dealt with it. And I didn’t hear from the man after that, so I assumed it was fine.”

Patrick said, “Miss Rose, I don’t know if it’s my place, but I’m going to tell you everything I know.”

Miss Rose said briskly, “Call me Alexis. And please do.”

*

Alexis was rubbing her temples. “So my father’s business manager teamed up with Bob Currie’s wife to blackmail me? And now Mr. Goldman is dead and Mrs. Currie thinks David did it and wants to kill him?”

Patrick nodded. “Do you know how Goldman could have figured out you were the Harlequin Thief?”

“He had something—a part of my costume. He must have broken into my room.” Alexis flung her arms out. “David always does this! If anyone should have shot that creep, it should have been me. Mrs. Currie should be coming to shoot _me_ right now!”

“Well,” Patrick said, a little taken aback. “I’m not sure David did shoot him.”

Alexis waved her hand as if that was irrelevant. She paced on the little balcony, her skirts swishing angrily. “How does Sebastien fit into this?” she said.

“He’s after the diamond too. And, I think—I think it’s possible—that David went back to him, to try to protect you.”

“Protect me?”

“I think David is trying to prevent him from finding out who you are.”

Alexis’s hair fell forward and she pushed it back impatiently. “This is why he didn’t tell me. He knew I’d never stand for this. Ugh, David!" 

Patrick glanced up through the window. “Dammit,” he said.

“What?”

“I don’t see David. We have to find him. Come on.”

They went back inside. Patrick looked around and didn’t see David anywhere. Or Raine. Or Mrs. Currie. He shouldn’t have taken his eyes off David for one second.

“I don’t know the layout of this place,” Patrick said to Alexis. “Where might he go?”

Alexis tucked her Veronica Lake swoop behind her ear, suddenly all business. 

“You go that way,” she pointed. “There’s a dining room and a morning room behind it. I’ll check David’s room. Go.”

Patrick went into the dining room, quietly, listening for any sound. All he could hear was the noise of the party behind him, and, as it receded, his own breathing.

Then Patrick heard voices. They seemed to be coming from a room up to his left. This must be the morning room. He approached cautiously and peered in. 

He saw Mrs. Currie, dressed in a bright yellow clown costume, with a gun trained on David. David’s hands were up.

“Who the hell are you?” David said, his voice high with tension.

“I’m the one who is going to kill you,” Mrs. Currie said calmly. Her bright clown makeup made the whole scene grotesque.

Patrick tensed up, ready to rush at her. But what if rushing her made her shoot before he could get there? 

“Why?”

“You killed my Eli,” she said. 

“Well, uh, I didn’t, actually. And _your_ Eli? Are you his wife?” Patrick could see David was trying to get her talking.

She shook the gun. “Don’t get cute,” she said. “Eli was on his way to meet you when he died. He was found dead in your apartment. What else am I supposed to think?”

“That’s all very, um, circumstantial?” David said.

“Shut up!” Mrs. Currie snapped. “I know you shot him, and now I’m going to shoot you.”

She raised the gun, and Patrick rushed in, pushing her arm up and knocking her to the ground. 

The gun went off as they struggled for it, the bullet hitting a wall sconce, sending glass everywhere.

Patrick heard David’s voice, saying his name in disbelief.

Mrs. Currie struggled underneath him. She was hampered by the loose clothing of her costume, and he was able to knock the gun out of her hand. He groped for it, but it disappeared under the loose folds of material.

She pushed at him, and Patrick took hold of her wrists. “Mrs. Currie, stop! David didn’t shoot Eli. Your husband did.”

“What?” she said.

“Your husband shot Goldman—Eli. I think he found out about your—your relationship, and followed him. And then asked Raine to help him cover it up.”

Patrick glanced at David. He looked stunned.

“Bob,” Mrs. Currie said blankly.

Patrick said, “Also, I’m sorry to have to tell you this—but your husband was shot tonight.”

“Bob was shot?”

“Yes, but he’s alive.” He hoped that was still true. “He’s in the hospital.”

Mrs. Currie was looking at him blankly. It all seemed too much for her to take in. He got up and helped her to her feet and led her over to a chair.

“Who shot him?”

Patrick said, “He said it was Raine.”

He looked over at David. Patrick very much wanted to know what he was thinking, but David wasn’t giving anything away. He looked shocked, his face pale.

Patrick said to Mrs. Currie, “Your husband managed to get away from Raine. He sent me here to stop you from killing David. He was thinking of you. He sent me here to save you.”

David finally spoke. “Um, excuse me. Save _her?”_ he said.

Patrick met David’s eye. He said, “He sent me to save her. And I came here to save you.”

David looked like he didn’t know what to say. He bit his lip.

Mrs. Currie said, “I can’t believe this.” She looked over at David. She cried out, “I wish I’d never heard of your family! You and your crazy Harlequin Thief of a sister!”

“What did you say?” came a voice from a doorway on the other side of the room.

Patrick turned to look, and saw the man in the Zorro costume. Raine.

Patrick looked at David and saw the dawning horror on his face. Raine finding out Alexis was the Harlequin Thief was the defeat of everything David had done to protect her.

“Sebastien,” David said faintly. Patrick could see him thinking fast, trying to come up with an explanation. “Um—”

“David, was Alexis the woman in the car that night?” Raine said, his voice calm but deadly serious. "The woman I have been searching for for _months_ was your goddam sister?"

Mrs. Currie laughed wildly. “That’s right! You’ve been trying so hard to find that diamond, and all along your little friend’s sister has it.”

Sebastien glanced at her and seemed to dismiss her. He looked back at David. “David?” 

“She doesn’t have the diamond,” David said.

“I asked you, is your sister the goddamn Harlequin Thief?” Raine said, his eyes still fixed on David, his voice even softer. Murderous.

David lifted his chin. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“I should kill you, David,” Raine said. David backed up. “But I won’t.” He took David’s face in his hands. “But later, you bet I am going to deal with you.” His voice was silky smooth, and chilled Patrick down to his bones. He took a step forward.

David stepped back. “There won’t be a later, Sebastien,” he said in a clear voice. “Now that you know the truth, I don’t have to pretend anymore. I can tell you how you make me _sick.”_

Then David looked over at Patrick. Their eyes met. Something electric leapt between them.

Raine looked between the two of them. His face darkened. “Brewer,” he hissed. He reached down and whipped the sword out of his belt. He swiped at Patrick with it. Patrick jumped back, and the sword sliced through the fabric of his sash. With a shock Patrick realized this was a real sword with a real blade.

Patrick dodged another blow, and then, feeling bizarrely like Douglas Fairbanks after all, groped for his own sword—a costume sword—out of its hilt. 

Patrick brought his sword up to block Raine’s next blow. Patrick had never fenced, but it was obvious Raine hadn’t either. He was just slashing back and forth. But his sword was sharp and deadly all the same.

Patrick blocked another swipe of the sword. He could see whatever cheap material his sword was made out of wasn’t going to last long. 

He parried blow after blow, backing up to avoid a direct hit, and Raine pressed his advantage, forcing him backwards. 

They went on that way, Raine advancing, Patrick retreating and parrying, until they were out of the room, backing up farther and farther, until they were suddenly in the middle of the party, with guests all around and the orchestra still playing. 

Patrick wondered fleetingly if the presence of so many witnesses would make Raine stop, but there was a light of murder in his eyes. 

“Goddam detective,” he panted, and lashed out once more. Patrick blocked the blow, and the party guests cheered. 

Patrick realized the guests thought this was like Mrs. Rose’s dance, a show for their benefit. Two Douglas Fairbanks impersonators swiping at each other with swords. 

Raine kept forcing him to retreat, farther and farther, until Patrick felt a wall against his back. Raine slashed at him, Patrick brought up his sword to block it, and the sword in his hand cracked in two. The pieces fell to the floor. 

Raine’s eyes lit up with triumph. He lifted his sword and stabbed forward with it, aiming for Patrick’s chest. Patrick heard David’s voice, shouting “Patrick!” and Patrick flung himself to the side. The sword caught him in the side, and he felt a searing pain and stumbled, flinging his hand out to stop himself from falling. Raine lifted the sword again, preparing another blow.

Suddenly a shot rang out.

The crowd fell silent. Raine stood with a surprised look on his face, and then he slumped to the floor. Patrick looked up in shock and saw Mrs. Currie, her painted clown smile at odds with her grim expression.

“He shot my Bob,” she said calmly.

The room suddenly erupted in cheers at this exciting end to the scene. He heard Alexis’s voice, saying, “Oh my God, shut up, all of you! This isn’t a _show!_ I’ve got a doctor here! Coming through!”

Then David was there, at Patrick’s side, his arms going around him. Patrick put his hand to his side, where Raine had stabbed him. He was bleeding. He suddenly felt very weak and faint.

“Are you all right?” David asked, quietly, urgently. “My God, Patrick.” 

Alexis emerged from the crowd, with the man in the dog costume behind her. “This man’s a doctor,” she said. The man knelt by Raine’s body on the floor. “He’s dead,” he said. With a feeling of unreality, Patrick recognized Dr. Mullens, the vet.

David shouted, “Come over here, this man is hurt. Help him!”

Patrick wondered if he should point out Dr. Mullens was a vet, not a medical doctor, but it didn’t seem worth it. He gasped out, “I think—it’s just my side, my waist—should be all right.” He leaned heavily on David, and David held him up, held him steady.

“You saved my life,” David whispered. “Patrick, you saved my life.”

“I’m glad,” Patrick said, and then everything went black.


	4. The Diamond

When Patrick woke up, he was laying on something soft. Someone was touching him, stroking his arms. It felt nice.

He opened his eyes, and the hands withdrew. David's hands. 

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said, and David smiled a trembling smile but didn’t put his hands back.

Patrick took stock. He was laid out on a sofa in the morning room, a pillow underneath his head. His boots, his mask and sash had been removed, and David was kneeling next to him. 

“Here, drink this,” David said. A hand slid behind Patrick’s neck to prop his head up while a glass was pressed to his lips. Patrick drank, and coughed a little. Brandy. It revived him a little.

David set the glass on the end table and then retreated to a nearby chair.

Patrick reached down and felt his waist, which throbbed. He could feel some kind of bandage.

“What happened?”

David got a cigarette from the box on the table. “You fainted. That vet said it was probably shock, not loss of blood. He bandaged up your wound and said to get to a hospital, but you’d probably be okay for tonight.” 

"Huh," Patrick said. “Can I have a drag off of that?” he said.

David lit the cigarette and came over to put it between his lips. Patrick inhaled, looking up at David looking down at him.

David gave him another drag. Then he sat back in his chair and continued. “Alexis called the police and they took away the, um—the body. And arrested that woman.”

Patrick said, “Mrs. Currie. I guess she saved my life.”

“After she tried to take mine.”

“Yeah.” Patrick pushed himself until he was sitting up. He winced.

“Careful,” David said.

“I’m all right,” Patrick said. He leaned back carefully, then looked at David. David looked shaken. He was still in his costume: the white suit, the white cape, but he’d taken his mask off.

God, he looked good. Patrick just wanted to look and look. “How are you feeling?” he said.

“How am _I_ feeling? I should be asking you that.”

Patrick said, “I’m fine. So how are you feeling?”

David said, “Well, this certainly hasn’t done any good for my intense fear of clowns.”

“David,” Patrick said, but then didn’t go on. His mind was a tangle of questions, but the one shouting over all the others was _how do you feel about me._ He wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to ask.

The silence stretched on. David put out his cigarette. Patrick licked his lips, but it didn’t help the words come out.

Finally David said, “You must hate me.”

Patrick was taken aback. “Hate you? Why would I hate you?”

“For a start, you were beaten, stabbed, and set up for murder because of me.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that.”

“You didn’t do those things—it was Raine.”

“But you must know I—I helped him,” David said.

“Well, I’m sure you had a good reason.”

David gave a laugh that turned into a sob. “So that’s it. You’re sure I had a good reason, and that’s it.”

Patrick said, “Raine was after the people who were in the car that night. Carl. Mutt Schitt. Bob Currie. And the Harlequin Thief, who he was moving heaven and earth to find. You were trying to protect your sister. Am I close?”

David said, “Yes, that’s—that’s close.”

“See, you had a good reason.”

“But the setup—when you were arrested.”

“Well, I admit I am a little curious about that.”

David wiped his eyes. “Oh, you’re a _little_ curious.” 

Patrick waited.

David said, “He had a thing about—about you.”

“About me? Why?

“He was convinced you were after him, that you might find the diamond first, or you might connect him to Carl Currie’s murder, or any number of other things.”

Patrick said, “Well, I _am_ a very good detective. He was right to be worried.”

David gave a little eyeroll. Then he said, “He also thought—he was convinced that I—that I cared about you.”

Patrick’s heart kicked up a notch.

David went on, “He wanted to make you hate me. So there was never a chance of something happening between us.”

“Oh, so the setup was—”

“To get rid of you—and also, make you think I betrayed you.”

Patrick said, “Ah.” He thought about how he’d tried to convince himself David was a liar and a murderer who had betrayed him. How he’d still wanted him anyway.

“I hated it,” David said. “I hated to think of you—thinking the worst of me. But I thought—I hoped—that you were too smart to let him trap you. And you were.” David gave him a little smile.

“David,” Patrick said. His voice broke a little. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Was Raine right? Do you care about me?”

David bit his lips. Then he gave a short nod.

Patrick felt something crack open in his chest. “Will you come sit by me?” he said.

David nodded. He came over and sat next to him, his white cape spilling around him.

Patrick touched the edge of the cape. “I like your costume,” he said.

“Thank you.” David fluffed his cape a little. He looked pleased.

“Are you an angel?”

“Technically, I’m Marlene Dietrich in the movie _Angel,_ but I will accept the more general term.”

Patrick brought his hand up and trailed it along David’s white sleeve. When he got to the cuff, he took hold of it to tug him closer. David let himself be tugged, leaning in and putting his hands on Patrick’s chest.

Patrick reached out and cupped his jaw.

“Would you kiss a mere mortal then?” he said.

“Yes,” David whispered, and leaned in and put his lips on his.

David’s lips were soft and gentle. Patrick brought a hand up to the back of David’s neck to pull him closer, and felt David’s tongue brush against his lips. Patrick opened his mouth for him, felt the slide of their tongues together, and it was perfect, perfect. Patrick leaned forward to wrap his arms around David’s waist, wanting to feel his body pressed against him.

The movement made the pain in his side flare, and he winced.

“Mm, maybe we should take it a little slower, tough guy,” David said, smiling against his mouth.

Patrick made a little sound of protest, but David pulled back anyway.

“Lean back against the couch, okay? Try not to move.” David got a pillow from another chair and tucked it behind him.

Patrick settled back against the pillow. He said, “Stay close, though, will you?”

David said softly, “All right.” He sat down again and found Patrick’s hand. His fingers clasped around his.

Patrick wanted to sit here forever, feeling the warmth of David’s hand in his, feeling his body so close.

There was a loud knock at the door, and then Mrs. Rose swept in.

“I wish to speak with you on an important matter, Mr. Burnett,” she announced.

“Brewer,” David corrected. He hadn’t withdrawn his hand from Patrick’s, so Patrick didn’t either. He felt very bold, sitting here, holding David’s hand in front of his mother.

“Mr. Brewer,” Mrs. Rose said grandly. “I would like to hire you to find my missing diamond.”

Patrick automatically sat up straighter, causing him to wince again. “Oh,” he said. “I’m honored that you would, um, consider me for that.”

“That was some very dexterous sword fighting I just witnessed,” Mrs. Rose said.

“That was pure desperation,” Patrick said. “I’m no Douglas Fairbanks.”

Mrs. Rose scoffed. “Oh, please. Dougie couldn’t tell one end of a sword from another.”

Patrick bit back a smile.

Mrs. Rose went on, “I am prepared to pay you ten thousand dollars if you can get my diamond back."

Patrick kept his expression neutral, but it was an effort. Ten thousand dollars. He looked at David. He said, “What do you think?”

David said, “Oh, I know you’re dying to say yes. So it’s fine with me.”

“Yes, then,” Patrick said to Mrs. Rose. “Thank you.”

“Excellent,” she said, and swept out again.

David said, “You do realize that if you don’t find the diamond, you just agreed to work for free, right?”

Patrick said confidently, “Oh, I’m gonna find it, David.”

David's lips parted slightly. “Okay then,” he said. There was a look on his face, like he was impressed, maybe, like maybe Patrick had done something right. Patrick liked that look. He felt like he would do anything, to make David keep looking at him like that.

*

Two days later, Patrick was sitting across from Alexis in the Roses' white living room. She was smoking a cigarette in her long holder.

Patrick said, “Can you tell me about that night, how you came to be in the car? Just walk me through it, everything you can remember.”

Alexis blew out a plume of smoke. “The whole thing was so stupid. Let's see. It was about eleven, and I was still in my room. I was very uninterested in going to the ball that year. I was putting on my costume when I caught sight of a very dishy man waiting next to a car outside.” 

Patrick nodded. Mutt. He took out a cigarette.

Alexis continued, “I decided I’d put on my costume and go down and see what this person was up to. I thought it would be fun to not tell him my name, and we got to talking, and then we got into his car so we could—talk a little more privately.”

Patrick dug out his matches and lit his cigarette. “Go on,” he said.

“So then these two old guys came tearing downstairs and jumped in the front seat of the car, and drove off with us in the back. So the cute one kind of pushed me down to the floor of the car. He obviously didn’t want these two men seeing me. So I did, and I stayed quiet, but when they started talking and I realized they stole my mom’s diamond, I thought I’d better try and stop them.”

Patrick reassessed several opinions he had about Alexis. “How did you do that?”

Alexis put her hands together and grimaced slightly. “I put my hands over the driver’s eyes.”

Patrick’s eyes opened up wide. “You did what?”

“I was working with what I had, okay? Not really my best moment.”

“So then what happened?”

“So the cute one was trying to pull my hands away and everyone was shouting, then there was a big crash. I crawled out of the car and saw we’d smashed into a jewelry store and there was a poor little man who’d been hit.

“I went to the man but then one of them, Carl Currie I think, was up and shouting and he was blaming me for the accident. Imagine? He was pretty mad, and he had a gun and everything. So I thought I’d better get out of there. He shot at me but I got away. I kept my mask on and I could tell he didn’t know who I was. Then I had to walk home in three inch heels, which was _not_ fun.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Um, I did? I stopped at a pay phone and called the police and said there had been an accident. I wanted to make sure the poor man who got hit got some help. But when it all shook out, I decided the best journey for me would be to”—she made a pushing away gesture—“put it all behind me and move on. Especially after the man confessed, it just seemed like the stars were just telling me to stay out of it.”

“But you went to visit them both—Bob Currie and Dr. Mullens, the vet.”

“Mm hm, I did.” Alexis’s eyes were round and sincere. “I mean, I wanted to make sure they were okay.”

“And to see if they remembered you.”

“Yes!” Alexis said, like she was proud of him for getting it. “That Dr. Mullens, what a sweetie, right? I’m so glad I invited him to the party, so he could be there when you got stabbed.” 

She paused, and he said, "Yes, thank you, Alexis."

"You're welcome," she said, tilting her head and smiling sunnily. She took a drag off of her long cigarette holder. “Anyway, I did feel a little bit bad for my mom losing her diamond and everything, but I figured Carl Currie had it, and, you know, he _had_ given it to her to begin with. You know, sometimes when the breakup happens, it’s considered polite to give back the jewelry. I mean, personally I think a gift is a gift, but some people see it differently.”

“So you think he stole it to prove a point of etiquette?”

“Well, mobsters are always very opinionated, is what I’ve found. Very keen on getting their own way.” She patted him. “You’ll find that out, I’m sure, in your job.”

He said, “You might have a point there, Alexis."

Alexis waved a hand. “Honestly, the whole thing is kind of embarrassing. Remind me to tell you about the time I landed Howard Hughes’s plane after he passed out on sleeping pills. Now _that_ took some fast thinking.”

Patrick wasn’t sure what to make of that. He put out his cigarette. “Thank you for speaking with me.”

“You are welcome!” She leaned over and tapped his knee. “David said, now you make sure you tell that adorable muffin everything you know. So I have.”

Patrick felt his face flush like a schoolboy. He wondered what David had said that translated into Alexis-speak as _adorable muffin._

“Is he here?” Patrick asked. He hadn’t seen David since the night of the party and Raine’s shooting, two days ago.

Alexis said, “He knows you’re here, so he’s probably hovering outside the door, ready to pounce. Wait here.” She gave him a brilliant smile and got up.

Patrick waited, and heard some muffled conversation out in the hallway that seemed to indicate David had indeed been waiting just outside. He stood up as David came in. David closed the door behind him and paused, leaning back against the door. He had a soft smile on his face.

Patrick’s heart thumped. That smile was for him. Crazy.

David came over and kissed him on the cheek, and Patrick’s heart thumped more. “Already on the case, I see,” David said. “How’s your wound?” 

“It’s fine.”

“Mm, remember what I told you?”

“It still hurts,” Patrick said, and David gave a little approving hum. “But I really am fine,” Patrick added.

“Okay, tough guy,” David said. “So are you fine enough for …” He put his hands on Patrick’s shoulders and slid them around to the back of his neck. Patrick leaned closer.

“Definitely fine enough for that,” he said.

David leaned in until his lips were brushing against Patrick’s. “Do you have to do more investigating today?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, some.” 

“I’ll make sure you still look presentable,” David whispered, and then he was kissing him. Patrick slid his arms around David’s waist and pulled him closer, relishing the feel of David soft lips and rough stubble, the slide of his tongue and the feel of his body against his. He felt David’s hands slide up the back of his neck to run through Patrick’s hair, tugging at his curls.

After a long moment, David pulled back. Patrick could feel his hair was mussed. He said, “What happened to making sure I look presentable?”

David ran his hands through Patrick’s hair, smoothing it down again, until Patrick wanted to purr like a cat. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” David said. “I’ve been eyeing these curls since I first met you.”

Patrick took hold of David’s waist more firmly. He said, “Have dinner with me tonight?” 

That soft smile again. “I’d love to,” David said.

*

The next day, Patrick put all of his other cases on hold so he could devote all his time to the Rosebud diamond investigation. He had an idea that he was pursuing. It involved a lot of leg work. He didn’t mind. It was a beautiful fall, the weather was crisp and sunny, and the trees in Central Park were shedding their leaves like yesterday’s sorrow.

He spent the evenings with David. They went to dinner, sometimes they held hands in dark corners. David took him to bars and clubs where they could hold hands in the open. But Patrick’s favorite nights they spent in his apartment, listening to the radio, talking, kissing, holding hands.

Patrick wanted David to feel his care, his respect, how seriously he wanted to take this. So each night ended with kisses, kisses that grew more lengthy, more heated, each night, but still just kisses. He sent David home and then spilled his hunger out between his fingers after he left.

Seven days, seven evenings, went on just like that. 

On the eighth day he solved the case.

*

Patrick surveyed the four Roses, seated on their white furniture in their vast living room.

“Thank you all for having me here,” he said.

He looked at each of the Roses in turn, lastly at David, who gave him a smile and an eyebrow lift, as if he knew how much Patrick was enjoying this. He grinned back. Well, he was.

He went on, “Up until David consulted me a few weeks ago, I, along with most people, assumed that Carl Currie was in possession of the diamond after its theft at the ball, and that it was stolen from him the night he was killed. His last word, ‘Rosebud’ seemed to suggest it.

“But Raine’s actions, since Currie’s death, I thought suggested otherwise. I think Raine decided he wanted Carl Currie’s operation, and he wanted the Rosebud diamond as a symbol that he was now the big man in town.

“I think he found out before he killed him that Carl didn’t have it, so he was determined to find out who did.” Patrick smiled at Alexis. “As Alexis has informed me, mobsters really like getting their own way.”

Alexis put her hand under her chin and gave him a little shimmy.

Patrick continued, “Raine assumed one of the other people in the car must have the diamond. We know what happened to Mutt Schitt. Bob Currie, he got out of prison. I think Bob was able to string him along for awhile, acting like he knew something, but eventually the game was up and Raine tried to kill him too. And, all the while, Raine was hot on the trail of the Harlequin Thief. 

“Unbeknownst to Bob, his wife Gwen _did_ know who the Harlequin thief was, because of her lover, Eli Goldman. Gwen Currie and Goldman went after Alexis with some blackmail demands.”

Mr. Rose said, “I still can’t believe Eli. He was like family.”

Patrick nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rose. I knew, of course, that the Harlequin Thief did not have it. So I wondered if maybe it was lost, not stolen, that night.”

Mr. Rose said, “You think it’s still at the scene of the crash?”

Patrick said, “I don’t think so. I talked to the owners of the jewelry store that the car crashed into. They searched the store and the area very thoroughly for gems and jewelry. I came away convinced that if it was there, they would have found it.”

“What then? Is it just lost forever?” Mrs. Rose said.

“No, Mrs. Rose. Because there was another person at the scene.”

Patrick looked around the room as he paused for dramatic effect. Just like Richard Diamond. David suppressed a smile at him.

Patrick said, “Dr. Mullens.”

Alexis jumped up. She said, “Oh no, you will not slander that sweet little man! There is no way he is a thief! He is kind, and compassionate—he’s a _healer,_ who healed _you!”_

Patrick was taken aback.

David said, annoyed, “Will you just let Patrick finish, Alexis? Your precious vet is fine."

Patrick continued, “So I paid a visit to Dr. Mullens, and we did a little digging, and I’ve asked him to come here”—he looked at his watch—“right about now.”

On cue, the doorbell rang. Patrick went to the door and opened it, and ushered Dr. Mullens inside.

Mrs. Rose had stood up. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

Patrick said, “Mrs. Rose, this is Dr. Mullens, the man hit in the hit and run accident. 

“Dr. Mullens was out walking his dog, Lucy. And Lucy just happens to have a bad habit of eating everything in sight.

“And it appears, that is exactly what she did that night. Dr. Mullens?”

Dr. Mullens had a little square of cloth in his hand. He opened his palm, unfolded the cloth, and there was the diamond.

They all looked at it. It sparkled in the fall sunshine. It was something.

Dr. Mullens said, “After Mr. Brewer told me what might have happened, I did a lot of digging in my backyard. The Rosebud was actually _in_ a rose garden!” He looked very happy about this. 

Mrs. Rose stood up and came closer. She looked at the diamond, glanced at Patrick and then at Dr. Mullens. “Are you implying that this diamond, my diamond—has passed through a canine digestive system?”

“That is correct!” Dr. Mullens said, smiling broadly.

“Oh,” Mrs. Rose said, bringing her hands to her lips in an expression of horror.

“Though if it makes you feel better, she might have—” Dr. Mullens made an up and down gesture to his throat—“it might have come up the other way.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Rose repeated faintly, looking like it did _not_ make her feel better. 

Dr. Mullens went on, “But I assure you I cleaned it very thoroughly.”

Mrs. Rose reached out for it, but at the last second seemed to change her mind. “Perhaps you can just place it here.” She patted the table. “I’ll take it to the jeweler’s tomorrow.”

Dr. Mullens did. Mrs. Rose and Mr. Rose looked at it. Neither one of them touched it. Mr. Rose took his wife’s hand and said, “Well, Moira, it’s back at long last.”

Alexis sidled up to Dr. Mullens. “Well, look at you, Dr. Mullens, coming in to save the day!”

Dr. Mullens shrugged modestly. “Gosh, Miss Rose. All I did was a lot of digging, although my backyard is really very torn up, I’m not sure at all about my peas this year—” 

“Uh huh,” Alexis said. “Come along and tell me all about your peas,” as she slipped her arm through his and pulled him out of the room.

Mrs. Rose turned to Patrick. “Mr. Brewer, my felicitations. You have accomplished something the police could not do, or the half a dozen private investigators we employed, much more well-known and respected than you are!”

Patrick said, “Well, thank you, Mrs. Rose.”

David said, “He’ll take that check now, thank you.”

*

They were back at Patrick’s apartment, sitting at his little dining table. They’d just finished some spaghetti and meatballs they’d picked up from a joint in Little Italy. Patrick was drinking his Orange pekoe and David was smoking a cigarette.

 _Richard Diamond, Private Detective_ was on, but Patrick had something else on his mind.

“David, what about Raine?”

“What do you mean?”

“He was killed in front of you. That must have been upsetting.”

David shook his head sharply. “I don’t know how this makes me sound. But no, I’m not upset. He was a monster.”

Patrick took a breath. “When you were with him, did he—did he hurt you?”

David looked down at the cigarette in his hand. He said, “No, not in the way you mean.”

“I want to know if he hurt you in _any_ way.”

David said, “This time, it was different from when I was with him before. This time I—I knew what I was doing. I knew something he didn’t, and that made it—I don’t know, different.”

Patrick said, “I see. I can understand that.”

David said, “I haven’t always made the best decisions. I’ve known a lot of Sebastiens.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

David gave a shake of his shoulders. He said, “Someday. Not today.”

Patrick nodded. A silence settled over the table. There was something he should say, too.

Patrick sipped his tea. It was cold. He set it down and blurted, “I’m divorced.”

David put out his cigarette. He looked like he was thinking. He said, “Was this—back in your hometown?”

Patrick nodded. “Wartime marriage. It was a mistake. I was—I was a bad husband, David.”

David’s hand reached out, and Patrick took it gratefully. David said, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Patrick gave him a rueful smile. “Someday. Not today.”

David tugged his hand. Patrick took the hint and leaned across the table to kiss him. It felt so nice he kissed him again.

When he leaned back again, David said, “So, I’d like to ask you something too.”

“What is it?”

“Can I ask you—um, why you always send me away at the end of the evening?”

Patrick said, “Oh.”

David said, “I don’t want to assume anything. If you’re not interested—”

“No—I mean, yes, I am interested—David. Yes. I want that, with you.”

David said hesitantly, “Have you ever—”

Patrick looked down. “I have. It’s not that—that’s not the reason.”

David said, “It’s just, I know you’re from a small town.”

“I was in France during the war.”

David smiled. “Oh well, if you’ve been to _France,”_ he said.

Patrick reached out and took David’s hand again. He kept his eyes down as he said, “God. David. I do, I want that. It’s just, I want to do this right. I want to _court_ you. I want you to know I don’t just want _that._ I want _you.”_

He looked up. 

David said, “Why can’t we have both?” His voice was soft.

Patrick let out a breath. “David,” he said.

David leaned across the table and put his mouth on his, gently, but with the promise of heat behind it. 

David started to pull back, but Patrick held his face with both hands. He said, “I want you to stay here tonight, David. Will you stay?”

David said softly, “Yes.”

Patrick said, “Do you need to go home—get your things?

“I may, in a moment of optimism, have packed an overnight bag. It’s in my car.”

Patrick laughed, a little wildly. “Then go get it, please, Mr. Rose.”

While David was gone, Patrick turned up the radio as he washed up the dishes. Richard Diamond prodded a confession out of the murderer, who fell apart with incredible speed.

David came back with a bag in his hand. He put it down and took off his hat. Patrick went over to him and helped him with his coat, hung it up by the door. 

“So gentlemanly,” David said, amused.

On the radio, the program was wrapping up.

“I’m surprised you like listening to that,” David said. “Isn’t it like being at work?”

Patrick shrugged. “It’s how I’d like my job to be. Diamond always gets his man.”

David trailed a hand down Patrick’s arm. He said, “So you don’t always get your man?”

Patrick caught his hand. “Not until recently.”

David pulled him closer and kissed him. He looked pleased. “You say the sweetest things, Mr. Brewer,” he said.

The radio announcer droned through an ad for Rexall Drugs, and then a music program started. Something with violin and piano. Patrick didn't know much about music, but he did know one thing.

“Dance with me, Mr. Rose,” he said.

David looped his arms around his neck. Patrick settled his hands at David’s waist. Maybe this should feel strange, maybe even ridiculous—dancing with a man in his living room. But instead Patrick felt absolutely right.

The song ended, and Patrick stopped swaying. He was tingling with anticipation. He slid his hands up David’s back and pulled him closer. David’s mouth met his, hot and sweet and urgent.

Patrick wanted more. And he could have it. He could have more.

He loosened David’s tie, and unbuttoned his shirt, getting a few buttons open and then abandoning the rest, hungry to get at that triangle of skin and chest hair that was revealed. He put his mouth there as David tipped his head back.

David clutched at Patrick’s arms and shoulders as Patrick moved his mouth to David’s neck, nibbling and kissing.

David hands went to Patrick’s shirt and started undoing the buttons, but he was hampered by the fact that Patrick couldn’t bring himself to pull away from the sweet skin of David’s neck, the feel of stubble scraping against his cheek. 

Patrick moved up to claim David’s mouth again, hands cupping the back of his head, tongue sliding against his. 

“Patrick,” David whispered when Patrick paused for breath. David’s hands were still trapped between their two bodies, hanging onto the edges of Patrick’s shirt.

“What is it?"

“Let’s get in your bed,” David said.

They stripped off the rest of their clothing and crawled under the covers, and Patrick felt shy, but then David put his arms around him and just held him, one hand tangled in his curls, their bodies touching everywhere, skin against skin.

David pressed his cheek against Patrick’s. “I want you,” he whispered in his ear. “It’s been—I’ve been alone so long.”

“David,” Patrick said softly. “David, I’m the same—I’ve been alone, too. I want—”

David’s mouth was suddenly on his, cutting him off, kissing him fiercely, desperately. Patrick responded immediately, his urgency rising up to match. David’s hands were on him, all over his body, setting him on fire everywhere. And now Patrick could touch David too, as he’d wanted for so long; he could feel the muscles in David’s back shift under his fingers; he could run his hands over the smooth skin of his belly and feel the rough hair of his chest against his cheek, against his mouth.

Patrick had planned to be gentle, and slow, and show David he was safe with him, that he was nothing like Raine. But David wasn’t acting like he wanted him to be gentle at all—he was clutching at him and digging his nails into his back, making Patrick’s desire spiral up and up until he was kissing David back just as fiercely, just as desperately. When he finally took David in hand and stroked him until David arched up beneath him, he felt almost wild; he didn’t know, he hadn’t known, that love could sharpen desire like this, ratchet it up to a fever pitch. When David touched him in turn, pressed him down on the bed and reached down to where only strangers had touched him for so long, it was almost too much; need and want rocketed through him like wildfire; Patrick held on desperately as he crested higher and higher; until letting go was like leaping off a cliff, but when he came down he was cradled safe in David’s arms.

He kept his head tucked into David’s chest, trying to get his breath back, tears pricking behind his eyelids. David stroked the back of his head.

“You okay?” he said.

Patrick nodded, his face still pressed to David’s chest.

“Where’s my hard-boiled detective?” David asked, his voice teasing.

Patrick gave a wet laugh. He lifted his head. “A friend told me that the hard-boiled types fall the hardest.”

David said softly, “Well, I certainly hope that’s true,” and kissed him again.

They got up and took turns in the bathroom. Patrick changed into his pajamas and got into bed to wait for David to take his turn. It had been a long time since he had shared a bed with anyone. Since his marriage broke up—and they’d had separate bedrooms for awhile before that. 

David came out of the bathroom in his pajamas. They were black, as Patrick had expected, but instead of being silky and expensive, they were a thick, bulky cotton, a little big for him. The sleeves came down over his hands.

“You look cozy,” Patrick said.

David looked down. “I get cold at night.”

“C’mere then,” Patrick said, patting the bed beside him. “Let me warm you up.”

David tucked a little smile between his teeth as he slipped under the covers. Patrick lifted his arm and David folded himself under it. He laid his head on Patrick’s shoulder, and curled his body against his. 

Patrick put his arms around him and rested his cheek against the top of his head. This man, here, in his arms; this is what he had been missing. This is what he had been starved for.

“I missed you,” he whispered into his hair.

David laughed a little. “When I was in the bathroom?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “But also—all the time, before now.”

David made little noise and burrowed further into his side. Patrick kissed the top of David’s head. He closed his eyes and let sleep carry him away.

****

**~Six months later~**

Miss Budd came in and said, “Man here to see you. Quite a dish, too.” She waggled her eyebrows.

Patrick looked at his watch. Twenty minutes late, but he had come to expect that.

“Send him in, Miss Budd,” he said. 

His twelve o’clock sailed in and kissed Patrick on the cheek. 

“You’re late,” Patrick pointed out, even though he was already smiling at just the sight of him.

David said, “Mm, yes, sorry about that,” not sounding very sorry. “I got caught up looking at some very interesting smoky topaz.”

David was working with Reynolds and Sons, the jewelry store suddenly made famous because of the Rosebud Diamond case. The store had agreed to offer a few of David’s exclusive, one-of-a-kind pieces. David had plunged himself into learning about metalwork and tracking down unique stones, and early sales for Rose Designs were very promising.

“I just need to finish my tea, and then we can go. Want some coffee?” Patrick said, gesturing to the percolator on the side table. Cream, sugar, and cocoa powder stood close by.

David said, “You shouldn’t have,” even as he went over and immediately poured himself a cup.

“This is a classy operation, David. I need it for when I offer drinks to my clients at ten AM.”

“Mm, I’m so glad I could help you improve your business practices.” David sipped his coffee and made an appreciative noise. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

Patrick held up his cup of tea and said, “You don’t know what _you’re_ missing.” It was an old joke between them.

David sat down across from him and said, “You sure about lunch? You’ve got a full waiting room out there.”

“They’re just out there hoping to squeeze in between appointments. I still gotta eat.”

David said, “Good thing you moved into this nice downtown office with this nice big waiting room.”

“I’ll never forget how your mother gave me so much free advertising,” Patrick said.

“Believe me, she wouldn’t let you forget, even if you wanted to,” David said. 

The Rosebud Girl being reunited with the Rosebud diamond was a story the press had seized on, and Mrs. Rose had milked it for all it was worth, dragging Patrick along for the ride. The resulting publicity for Patrick Brewer, private investigator, had made business triple practically overnight.

Mrs. Rose had managed to parlay her new notoriety into several job offers. Alexis surprised everyone by stepping in to help Mrs. Rose negotiate a headlining role in a new soap opera—not for the radio, but for the new medium of television. If television caught on, it could be big.

Alexis and Ted Mullens were still dating. Lucy had been dubbed the “Diamond Dog” by the press, and Alexis was fielding offers for her too. She helped arrange Lucy’s endorsement of a line of dog food—rebranded, inevitably, as Diamond Dog Food, with Lucy’s face on every bag. The proceeds helped Ted move into a bigger house with a bigger yard, where he could plant almost as many flowers and vegetables as he wanted.

Gwen Currie was currently serving a sentence of ten years. With good behavior, she could be out much sooner. Bob had recovered from his gunshot wound, and visited her regularly. “She waited for me, I’m waiting for her,” he said. Patrick refrained from pointing out that actually, she had _not_ waited for him—quite the opposite, really.

Patrick finished his tea. As he put down his cup, his eye caught on the ring David had made for him. It was etched silver, like the moonstone ring David wore, but the stone was a cloudy blue instead of gray. Aquamarine, David said it was, but Patrick just knew he loved it. He'd told David it made him think of the moon shining down on the ocean, just like David shone down on him and changed his life. David teased him, saying he’d be a poet yet, then kissed the life out of him.

Patrick watched as David drained the last of his coffee. “Ready?” he said.

David stood up. “If you are.”

Patrick got up and came around the desk. “So what would you like? Wontons again?”

David’s face softened in a smile. “You know me so well.”

“I do,” Patrick said. He tugged David close for a kiss. It was brief, just a short, soft press of lips—but it felt like magic, like possibility, like coming home. Then, Patrick put on his hat and belted his coat, and they walked out together into the sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a little artistic license. Marlene Dietrich did wear a gorgeous white outfit with a cape (which you can see in[ this blog post](http://lastgoddess.blogspot.com/2013/05/double-trouble.html)) and she was in a movie called _Angel,_ but she didn't wear the outfit in the movie.
> 
> Thanks for reading! This is different than anything I've written before, so thanks for taking this journey with me.


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